Swift-waning moons the cycle close:
Birth,—toil,—mirth,—death; life onward goes
Through harvest heat or winter chills
On Sabine hills.
Yet One breaks not His long repose,
Nor hither comes when Zephyr blows;
In vain the spring's first swallow trills;
Never again that Presence thrills;
One charm no circling season knows
On Sabine hills.