A dim uncertain flickering threw around.
The waning fire was but a heap of ashes,
While there and there a feeble red remained,
That now and then threw out a fitful gleam.
Something like slumber fell upon my eyes,
And a dream passed o'er my spirit stealthily,
As, in the early grey of morn, the mists,
Gathered in masses, up the hill-sides creep,
Ere they dissolve before the sun away.
Remembrance cannot all its features tell,