Dear Dean, I'm In A Sad Condition, I Cannot See To Read Or Write; Pity The Darkness Of Thy Priscian, Whose Days Are All Transform'D To Night. My Head, Though Light, 'S A Dungeon Grown, The Windows Of My Soul Are Closed; Therefore To Sleep I Lay Me Down, My Verse And I Are Both Composed. Sleep, Did I Say? That Cannot Be; For Who Can Sleep, That Wants His Eyes? My Bed Is Useless Then To Me, Therefore I Lay Me Down To Rise. Unnumber'D Thoughts Pass To And Fro Upon The Surface Of My Brain; In Various Maze They Come And Go, And Come And Go Again. So Have You Seen In Sheet Burnt Black, The Fiery Sparks At Random Run; Now Here, Now There, Some Turning Back Some Ending Where They Just Begun. Thomas Sheridan.