Against the dim, dilating skies
Orion’s radiant mysteries
Of belt, and plume, and helmet rise—
I see—with flashing sword in hand,
With eyes sublime, and forehead grand—
The conquering constellation stand!
And on one purple tower the moon
Hangs her white lamp—the night wind’s rune
Floats faint o’er holt and black lagoon.
Far down the dimly shining bay
The drifting sea-fog, cold and gray,
Wraps all the golden ships away—
The fair-sailed ships, that in the glow
Of ghostly moon and vapor go,
Like wandering phantoms, to and fro!
With mournful thought I sit alone—
My heart is heavy as a stone,
And hath no utterance but a moan.
I think of him, who, being blest,
With pale hands crossed on silent breast,
Taketh his long unending rest;
While lone winds chant a funeral stave,
And pallid church-yard daisies wave
About his new unsodded grave.
The skies are solemn with their throng
Of choiring stars—and deep and strong
The river moans an undersong.
Oh mournful wind! Oh moaning river,
Oh golden planets, pausing never!
His lips have lost your song forever!