CONTEMPLATION

 THOU, O my Grief, be wise and tranquil still, 
The eve is thine which even now drops down, 
To carry peace or care to human will, 
And in a misty veil enfolds the town.
 

While the vile mortals of the multitude, 
By pleasure, cruel tormentor, goaded on, 
Gather remorseful blossoms in light mood-- 
Grief, place thy hand in mine, let us be gone 

Far from them.
 Lo, see how the vanished years, 
In robes outworn lean over heaven's rim; 
And from the water, smiling through her tears, 

Remorse arises, and the sun grows dim; 
And in the east, her long shroud trailing light, 
List, O my grief, the gentle steps of Night.

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