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So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken) [10] as one
Who in a dream of night would fly,
But cannot, from a danger nigh.
What though the moon—the silvery moon—
Shine on his path, in her high noon;
Her smile is chilly, and her beam
In that time of dreariness will seem
As the portrait of one after death;
A likeness taken when the breath
Of young life, and the fire o' the eye,
Had lately been, but had pass'd by.
'Tis thus when the lovely summer sun
Of our boyhood, his course hath run:
For all we live to know—is known;
And all we seek to keep—hath flown;
With the noon-day beauty, which is all.
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall—
The transient, passionate day-flower,(11)
Withering at the evening hour.
I reach'd my home—my home no more—
For all was flown that made it so—
I pass'd from out its mossy door,
In vacant idleness of woe.
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