And well-earned rest and honest toil.

  

Where do we fly, under deep dark sky?

Where

 Over the moors we go,

 Over the pool where quiet and cool

 Bulrush and sedges grow—

 And what was the loveliest thing we met?

 Ah—we forget!

 We remember though all the firelit glow

 Of a great hearth’s gleam and glare,

 And we looked for a space at each happy face

 And the love that was written there.

 And that, of all we have looked on yet—

 We least forget!

  

Oh what a day! all yellow and gray,

Oh

 And so dark, so dreary, so foggy and thick,

 That if I should meet

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