The drama of day over,
Empty the seats of life,
Dead the twilight fire.
Curtains of black
Woven from threads of purple
By the hands of a star,
That lone soul weeping
Over the dead hours
Laid by mute time in the eternal's grave.
In the night of my soul
Not even a ray,
Nor a mourner present;
But a deep dark hollow
Where no fate weeps
Even fear is afraid to tread:
Fear-forsaken, hollow within hollow,
Even silence flees from me—
O, the pity of it!