Up Too Late Poem by Isadora Quagmire

The moon is sailing on the breeze,
Casting silver beams through the trees,
I am awake as the watches of the night go by,
And pale grows the eastern sky,
My shift tonight has been long,
And the hours' weariness is strong,
But before I rest my head,
And before I reach the bed,
I have to go this site's library and see,
All the wonderful works of poetry,
Penned by friends—all in distant places,
And as I enjoy their works' lovely traces,
I find that I don't want to look away,
Yet I need sleep—I shouldn't stay,
But slowly I resign to my fate,
I shall be up once again—much too late!