The sullen austere hills, the humid misty ground
Sad that the spectral lances of the moon
Essayed the glowing firmament so soon.
For when tired Earth the arms of Day is leaving
For those of sterner Night, yet fondly cleaving
Still to Sunshine’s fingers, rose tipped as they lie
Aslant the woods, the valleys, ground and sky,
The heart of man,—in that calm solitude—alone
Sighs for his faded hopes now cold as stone
Weeps for his sins, hoping yet to atone