And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath,
And stars to set—but all—
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
THE LOST PLEIAD.
“Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below.”—Byron.
And is there glory from the heavens departed?
O void unmark’d!—thy sisters of the sky
Still hold their place on high,
Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started,
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye!