Till in shades of hate
My love of her smile has faded quite
And I spring to kill her, there in the night—
But only the yew I see.
[THE DEAD NIGHT]
The strong brave Night is dead. Its endless deeps
Of patient tenderness, the moon-bright still
When every silver lake and purple hill
Hold wise unfathomed converse with the steeps
Of starry heaven, are past. All nature weeps