I

What now remains, what now remains but night? Night hopeless, since the moon is in her grave!

Late came a glorious light In one wide flood on spire and field and wave. It found a flowing way To secret places where the dead leaves lay; It won the half-hid stream To shy remembrance of her morning gleam; Then on the sky’s sharp shore Rolled back, a fading tide, and was no more. No more on spire and ivied window bright! No more on field and wave!

What now remains, what now remains but night? Night hopeless, since the moon is in her grave!