CHARADE.
Darker and darker still, the slow hours creeping,
Bring to my first the inexorable gloom;
Silent and soft, the tender skies are weeping
For all the beauty they no more illume.
Stay not. O wand'rer, by the hurrying river,
Nor in the whispering wood, nor where above
Rises the perilous crag. My second ever,
With added final, welcomes all who rove.