As some deep vale when sudden sinks the sun,
Deep, yet suspended on the mountain height
And girt by snows, am I when thou art gone.
With death those hills, so late all amethyst,
At once are clad: the streams are filmed with ice:
The golden ether changeth into mist:
Cold drops run down the beetling precipice:
The instant darkness cometh as a wind,
Or falleth as the falling of a pall:—
Return, my light of life, my better mind,