If you could choose an hour of wakefulness out of the whole night, it would be this. Since your sober bedtime, at eleven, you have had rest enough to take off the pressure of yesterday’s fatigue, while before you, till the sun comes from “Far Cathay” to brighten your window, there is almost the space of summer night — one hour to be spent in thought with the mind’s eye half shut, and two In that strangest of enjoyments the forgetfulness alone of joy and woe.