The Third Chime
They say it is the darkest hour,
But I wonder, can it be?
For the hour that precedes the dawn
Is preferable to three.
That of all the chimes I know
Is the one I greatest dread—
I would count my self a lucky man
If the chimes were six, instead.
For then I’d gladly part the blinds,
And hopefully suppose—
That beyond the frosted window pane
There would bloom the reddest rose.
Then delighted by the garden, fair,
That only I could see—
Might I muse of distant meadows
Where there is no chime of three!
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