II.
So, like the corn moon-ripened last,
Would I, weary and gray,
On golden memories ripen fast,
And ripening pass away.
In an old night so let me die;
A slow wind out of doors;
A waning moon low in the sky;
A vapour on the moors;
A fire just dying in the gloom;
Earth haunted all with dreams;
A sound of waters in the room;
A mirror's moony gleams;
And near me, in the sinking night,
More thoughts than move in me—
Forgiving wrong, and loving right,
And waiting till I see.