And in the waking pauses
Of weariness and care,
And when the dark hour draws his
Black weapon of despair,
Above effects and causes
We hear its music there.
The longings life hath near it
Of love we yearn to see;
The dreams it doth inherit
Of immortality;
Are callings of her spirit
To something yet to be.
NIGHTFALL.
O day, so sicklied o'er with night!
O dreadful fruit of fallen dusk!—
A Circe orange, golden-bright,
With horror 'neath its husk.
And I, who gave the promise heed
That made life's tempting surface fair,
Have I not eaten to the seed
Its ashes of despair!
O silence of the drifted grass!
And immemorial eloquence
Of stars and winds and waves that pass!
And God's indifference!
Leave me alone with sleep that knows
Not any thing that life may keep—
Not e'en the pulse that comes and goes
In germs that climb and creep.
Or if an aspiration pale
Must quicken there—oh, let the spot
Grow weeds! that dost may so prevail,
Where spirit once could not!