IX.
EVENING.
1.
The dews are falling, the dews are falling;
The lark is in his place of rest;
The swallows swift in the air are calling,
Intent upon their insect-quest:
Small moths o'er every bramble flit;
The ants are still their labours plying;
A massy cloud, by sunset lit,
Over the daylight's grave is lying;
And all the north is densely hid
By an air-piled cloud-pyramid—
2.
Oh! my Life's distant Spirit! wert thou near,
I would not offer up this thought-born tear
On the dim altar of my solitude;
For in the shadow of the coming Dark,
Which on the forehead of the East doth brood,
Thine eyes were floods of joy for my soul's bark:
But in my visions lonely
Thy spectral memory only
Proffers to my mute love an unsubstantial food.
