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Are thine
eyes weary? is thy heart too sick
To struggle any
more with doubt and thought,
Whose formless veil
draws darkening now and thick
Across thee, e'en as
smoke-tinged mist-wreaths brought
Down a fair dale to
make it blind and nought?
Art thou so weary that no
world there seems
Beyond these four walls, hung with
pain and dreams?
Look out upon the real world,
where the moon,
Halfway 'twixt root and crown of
these high trees,
Turns the dead midnight into dreamy
noon,
Silent and full of wonders, for the breeze
Died at sunset, and no images,
No hopes of day, are
left in sky or earth -
Is it not fair, and of most
wondrous worth?
Yea, I have looked, and seen
November there;
The changeless seal of change it
seemed to be,
Fair death of things that, living once,
were fair;
Bright sign of loneliness too great for
me,
Strange image of the dread eternity,
In whose
void patience how can these have part,
These
outstretched feverish hands, this restless heart?
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