midnight
To such a one , there can be no new dawn of the heart ; no sun can gild its cold and cheerless horizon ; no breeze can revive pulses that have long since ceased to throb with any chance emotion . I am too old to feel freshness in this nipping air . It chills me more than the damps of night , to which I am accustomed . Night -- midnight ! is my season of delight . Nature is instinct then with secrets dark and dread . There is a language which he who sleepeth not , but will wake , and watch , may haply learn .