The sun still sleeps, yet I sit
with the morning birds;
They drink the dew upon the leaves,
and sing a chirping morning song.
I have put King Henry to bed,
and praised his Machiavelli qualities,
while blissfully unaware of the hour;
tis a quarter to five in the morning.
Oh, William, how you do intrigue!
Upon finishing the masterpiece,
I yet yearn for more of your brilliant
prose in iambic pentameter.
Away off in the distance
I hear a dog’s echoing bark.
Does he see the third Richard, or is he
merely announcing the morning hour?
Ah me! As Juliet would sigh,
it is early, yet late–somewhere
in the between of night and day
and yet, I am at peace.
Neither tired, nor wired for daily
doings, I will sit and ponder
the worlds of Lear and Othello;
All the while–glad that I am neither.
A stirring in the next room alerts
me to others waking for the day.
Goodnight my dearest William.
Tis time to greet the morrow.