VII.
Dark
Over all,
Falls the twilight like a pall.
Kindle not the restless flare
Of the midnight torches’ glare;
Let the restful stars look down,
Silent through the clear, cold air,
High and pure as his renown!
Pale against the evening sky
Burns the banner that ye drape
With the heavy folds of crape;
And ye have no need to tie
All its fluttering crimson back
With those heavy folds of black;—
For the very winds to-day
Droop with sadness, nor would care
With their crimson toy to play!