By—what except to envy must man's wit
Impute that sure implacable release
Of life from warmth and joy? But death means peace.
X
Noon is the conqueror,—not a spray, nor leaf,
Nor herb, nor blossom but has rendered up
Its morning dew: the valley seemed one cup
Of cloud-smoke, but the vapor's reign was brief;
Sun-smitten, see, it hangs—the filmy haze—
Gray-garmenting the herbless mountain-side,