Nightfall

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O day, so sicklied o'er with night!
  O dreadful fruit of fallen dusk!--
  A Circe orange, golden-bright,
  With horror 'neath its husk.

  And I, who gave the promise heed
  That made life's tempting surface fair,
  Have I not eaten to the seed
  Its ashes of despair!

  O silence of the drifted grass!
  And immemorial eloquence
  Of stars and winds and waves that pass!
  And God's indifference!

  Leave me alone with sleep that knows
  Not any thing that life may keep--
  Not e'en the pulse that comes and goes
  In germs that climb and creep.

  Or if an aspiration pale
  Must quicken there--oh, let the spot
  Grow weeds! that dost may so prevail,
  Where spirit once could not!

© Madison Julius Cawein