Nightfall

O day, so sicklied o’er with night! O dreadful fruit of fallen dusk!-- A Circe orange, golden-bright, With horror ’neath its husk.--

And I, who gave the promise heed That made life’s tempting surface fair, Have I not eaten to the seed Its ashes of despair!

O silence of the drifted grass! And immemorial eloquence Of stars and winds and waves that pass! And God’s indifference!

Leave me alone with sleep that knows Not anything that life may keep-- Not e’en the pulse that comes and goes In germs that climb and creep.

Or if an aspiration pale Must quicken there--oh, let the spot Grow weeds! that dust may so prevail Where spirit once could not!