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77. | [LXXVII. In hazy gold the hill-side sleeps] |
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The book of the dead | ||
159
[LXXVII. In hazy gold the hill-side sleeps]
In hazy gold the hill-side sleeps,
The distance fades within the mist,
A cloud of lucid vapor creeps
Along the lake's pale amethyst.
The distance fades within the mist,
A cloud of lucid vapor creeps
Along the lake's pale amethyst.
The sun is but a blur of light,
The sky in ashy gray is lost;
But all the forest-trees are bright,
Brushed by the pinions of the frost.
The sky in ashy gray is lost;
But all the forest-trees are bright,
Brushed by the pinions of the frost.
I hear the clamor of the crow,
The wild-ducks' far, discordant cry,
As swiftly out of sight they go,
In wedges driving through the sky.
The wild-ducks' far, discordant cry,
As swiftly out of sight they go,
In wedges driving through the sky.
I know the sunshine of this hour,
Warm as the glow of early May,
Will never wake the dying flower,
Nor breathe a spirit through decay.
Warm as the glow of early May,
Will never wake the dying flower,
Nor breathe a spirit through decay.
160
The scarlet leaves are doomed to fall,
The lake shall stiffen at a breath,
The crow shall ring his dreary call
Above December's waste of death.
The lake shall stiffen at a breath,
The crow shall ring his dreary call
Above December's waste of death.
And so, thou bird of southern flight,
My soul is yearning for thy wings;
I dread the thoughts that come to light
In gazing on the death of things.
My soul is yearning for thy wings;
I dread the thoughts that come to light
In gazing on the death of things.
Fain would I spread an airy plume
For lands where endless summers reign,
And lose myself in tropic bloom,
And never think of death again.
For lands where endless summers reign,
And lose myself in tropic bloom,
And never think of death again.
The book of the dead | ||