OH, dreary day, that had so late a dawn!
Oh, dreary day, so long, though early gone!
Fold thy gray mantle round thy form and go
To find the lost sun, while Night comes on,
Across the plain, with silent step and slow.
I weary of thy dark, unsmiling mood,
I weary of thy dull disquietude,
And thy complaining voice that tells of pain,
Not with the tempest's trumpet, but subdued
In broken sentences of falling rain.
Now, soft as household spirit, comes the Night
And draws the curtains, fanning still more bright
The cheerful fire, while for her gentle sake
The tapers burst in bloom with yellow light,
Like evening primroses just kissed awake.