The woods and waters, with the winds, are dumb.
But now a breeze has found
Sorrowful voice, and sobs along the ground:
“Oh the lost light, the last, the best lost light!
No more on field and wave!”
What now remains, what now remains but night?
Night hopeless, since the moon is in her grave!
III.
Hark, how the wind outswells!
Tempting the wood’s dark heart till he rebels,