All is as it hath been.
Nay, not for those
Who have felt the shadow fall of that strange cloud
Which yet seems full of light, the shadow of death,
Is aught as it hath been. The dark sea-line
Solemnly deepens, and the sunset sweeps
With graver splendors through its pageant-pomp.
I know not why these meadows, yester-year,
And these stark pines against the sunset-rose,
And these young woods where haply one beholds