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!