It is all dark and dank, a mourning of earth and heaven,

Sorrow-laden, life-weary, long-lost, death-craven,

A day lost to time, a light more baleful than night.

No dead these, but a living death seeking peace

From the furies—their own thoughts—sorrow—surcease,

Kissing the lashing wind thinking it to be the breeze.

Pour, pour, pour, O relentless, exhaustless pain!

To the measure of thine own agony, thy woe's refrain,

These desolate streams of thy music, thy pangs of a million seas.

[54]

[54]

46

EVENING WORSHIP

The amber west melts into saffron,

The east, a misty vision of rose:

Like the sun, our souls seek repose.

The mountains, empurpled priests,

The river, the chant from their lips,

Sunlit the pine-candles' crimson tips.

At this hour of worship

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