THE passionless twilight slowly fades
Beyond the gray, grim woodland glades,
Till now, with mournful eyes, I mark
The approaching dark:
A clouded spirit, borne from far,
Whose sombre front no delicate star
Brightens,--to tint with silvery light
Her realms of night:
An awful spirit! her pale lips
Low whispering down the drear eclipse,
Send thro' those rayless spaces chill
An ominous thrill:
Her tongue's strange language none may know;
We only feel it ebb and flow
In murmurs of half-muffled sighs,
And vague replies:
All hail! akin to me thou art,
Dim angel of the veilèd heart--
Ah! wrap me close, ah! fold me deep!
I fain would sleep!
