And fields flower-decorated all the year,

And streams that carry secrets to the sea,

And hills that hold back something evermore

Though wild their speech with clouds in thunder-roar,—

Yea, every sylvan sight and peaceful tone

Are thine to give thy days their purer zest.

Let not the legend grieve thee on this stone.

I Death am here. What then? My name is Rest."

III.

Despairless! Hopeless! Quietly I wait

On these unpeopled tracks the happy close

Of Day, whose advent rang with noise elate,

Whose later stage was quick with mirthful shows

And clasping loves, with hate and hearty blows,

And dreams of coming gifts withheld by Fate

From morrow unto morrow, till her great

Dread eyes       'gan tell of other gifts than those,

And her advancing wings gloomed like a pall;

Her speech foretelling joy became a dirge

As piteous as pitiless; and all

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