The strokes I cannot count. O watchman, can you see On the misty dial-plate What hours remain for me?
I know the rosy dawn Faded—how long ago!— Lost in the radiant depths Of morning’s golden glow.
Then all the mountain tops Stood breathless at high noon, While earth for brief repose Put off her sandal shoon.
Now faster fly the hours— The afternoon is here; O watchman in the tower, Tell me, is sunset near?
Yet—why care I to know?— Beyond the sunset bars Upon the dead day wait The brightest of the stars!
THE CLOSED GATE
I walked along a narrow way; The sun was shining everywhere; The jocund earth was glad and gay, With morning freshness in the air.
The grass was green beneath my feet; The skies were blue and soft o’erhead; The robin carolled clear and sweet, And flowers their fragrance round me shed.
How shone the great hills far away; How clear they rose against the blue; How fair the tranquil meadows lay, Where the bright river glances through!
But suddenly, as on I pressed, Before me frowned a closéd gate; Filled with dismay, and sore distressed, I strove in vain to conquer fate!