Builds white a tomb for the daylight—
A frosty, shaggy fog,
That fits gray wigs on the cedars,
And furs with wool each log;
Carpets with satin the meadow,
And velvets white the bog.
Alone at morn—indifferent;
Alone at eve—I sigh;
And wait, like the wind complaining,
Complain and know not why;
But ailing and longing and hating
Because I cannot die.
How dull are the sunsets! dreary
Cold, hard and harsh and dead!
Far richer were those of August,
One stain of wine-dark red—
The juice of a mulberry vintage—
To the new moon overhead.
But now I sit with the sighing
Dead wests of a dying year!
Like the fallen leaves and the acorns
Am worthless and feel as sear;
For the soul and the body sicken,
And the heart's one scalding tear.
And I stare from my window! The darkness,
Like a bravo, his cloak throws on;
The moon, like a hidden lanthorn,
Glitters—or dagger drawn;
All my heart cries out beseeching:
"Strike here! strike and be gone!"
4.
When friends are sighing
Round one and one
Nearer is lying,
Nearer the sun,
When one is dying
And all is done;
I may remember,
You may forget
Words, each an ember,
Burning here yet—
In dead December
One will regret.
Love we have given,
Over and o'er,
All, who has driven
Us from his door,
Is he forgiven
When he is poor?
What if you wept once,
What though he knew!
What if he slept once!
Still he was true,
If he but kept once
Something of you.