Idle breezes out of the West,
Let them linger in phantom forms.
Night, be still as an infant's rest;
Banish the darkness, chain the storms.
Hush, my spirit, be calm as Night;
Sorrow is calm, but it is not peace.
Heralds of tempest, over the light,
Storm-clouds hurry and will not cease.
Eyes are dim that were bright and blue,
Hands were warm that are long since cold;