Which yawned upon him through the gloom.
The summer flowers were on their wane;
And silently, like one in pain,
Who hides his pangs from loving eyes,
The brooks looked calmly toward the skies.
A little circle in a wood—
The heart of the old solitude—
Lay wrapped in something more than sleep—
A boding silence, stern and deep.
Suddenly, from a distant bell,