Despairing fell the sore-spent Sun,

And cried, ‘I die,’ and sank in fire;

Like conquering Death, the Night came on

And ran from spire to spire;

And swollen-pale ascended soon,

Like Death in Life, the leprous Moon.

On windy ledges lined with light,

Between the still Stars sparsely strewn,

Two Spirits grew from out the Night

Beneath the mistless Moon,

And held deep parley, making thought

With words sententious half distraught.

One full-robed; in his hand a book;

His lips, that labour’d for the word,

Scarce moved in utterance; and his look

Sought, not his face who heard,

But that Sad Star that sobs alway

Upon the breast of dying Day.

One, weary, with two-handed stress

Leant on his shoulder-touching spear

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