Night (by Anne Bronte)

I love the silent hour of night,
. . For blissful dreams may then arise,
. . Revealing to my charmed sight
. . What may not bless my waking eyes!

. . And then a voice may meet my ear
. . That death has silenced long ago;
. . And hope and rapture may appear
. . Instead of solitude and woe.

. . Cold in the grave for years has lain
. . The form it was my bliss to see,
. . And only dreams can bring again
. . The darling of my heart to me.