The strong brave Night is dead. Its endless deeps
Of patient tenderness, the moon-bright still
When every silver lake and purple hill
Hold wise unfathomed converse with the steeps
Of starry heaven, are past. All nature weeps
And draws the veiling grey of morning mist
Upon the lips that Night's last clouds have kist —
The Night that watched so well the world who sleeps.
The Night is dead — Alas — and pallid Day
Is but the corpse laid out in cold array,
The white sad emblem of the heart we knew.
Through half-closed lids the eyes shine palely blue;
The gleaming grave clothes cover all the rest.
So cruel still lies now the air's sweet breast
And trees and hills fold down calm hands and eyes,
That none may guess their secret mysteries.