Impressions of a Traveller
In a silent, desolate spot,
In the night stone-frozen and clear,
The wanderer's hand on the sail
Is gripped by the fingers of fear.
He looketh afar o'er the waves,
Wind-ruffled and deep and green;
And the mantle of Autumn lies
Over wood and hill and ravine.
'Tis Autumn! — time of decay,
And the dead leaves' 'wildering flight;
And the mantle of Autumn lies
On the wanderer's soul to-night!
Desolation
I
There was a King of Liang* — a king of wondrous might —
Who kept an open palace, where music charmed the night —
II
Since he was Lord of Liang a thousand years have flown,
And of the towers he builded yon ruin stands alone.