Poetry Archives

Lo, a pallid fleecy vapour
   Far along the East is spread;
Every star has quench’d its taper,
   Lately glimmering over head.
On the leaves, that bend so lowly,
   Drops of crystal water gleam;
Yawning wide, the peasant slowly
   Drives afield his sluggish team.
Dreary looks the forest, lacking
   Song of birds that slumber mute;
No rough swain is yet attacking,
   With his bill, the beech’s root.
Night’s terrific ghostly hour
   Backward through time’s circle flies;
No shrill clock from moss-grown tower
   Bids the dead men wake and rise.
Wearied out with midnight riot
   Mystic Nature slumbers now;
Mouldering bodies rest in quiet,
   ’Neath their tomb-lids damp and low;
Sad and chill the wind is sighing
   Through the reeds that skirt the pool,
All around looks dead or dying,
   Wrapt in sorrow, clad in dool.