 | Valete |  |
162
A Drear Night-Walk.
The stars are hid, Helvellyn with its snows
Looms like Carrara's ridge against the moon.
The sheep call loud as if the time were noon;
Dogs bark; owls hoot; the wakeful farmyard crows;
Far down the dusky vale the Greta flows
With wrathful murmur sorely out of tune;
We shall not hear its voice of solace soon,
For, hark, the flood to passionate murmur grows.
Looms like Carrara's ridge against the moon.
The sheep call loud as if the time were noon;
Dogs bark; owls hoot; the wakeful farmyard crows;
Far down the dusky vale the Greta flows
With wrathful murmur sorely out of tune;
We shall not hear its voice of solace soon,
For, hark, the flood to passionate murmur grows.
With sound disordered, hours in disarray
Alone I walk beneath a starless sky—
Nay, not alone, Grief holds me by the hand
And hoarsely whispers, “Thou canst understand
Now, what large share in earth's full harmony
The loved ones make, the lost ones take away.”
Alone I walk beneath a starless sky—
Nay, not alone, Grief holds me by the hand
And hoarsely whispers, “Thou canst understand
Now, what large share in earth's full harmony
The loved ones make, the lost ones take away.”
| Valete | |