To quicken the flame in the western skies--

To blow the clouds to a streaming flame,

Where the red sun sinks in the opal sea,

And red as the heart of the opal glows

His last wild gleam in the waters grey.

O grey-green waters, curling to rose,

The kings are glad of the dying day;

The kings are weary; the white mists close--

The white mists gather to cover their shame.

ASHALORN: The evening mist is dank upon my brow,