Thou, O my Grief, be wise and tranquil still,The eve is thine which even now drops down,To carry peace or care to human will,And in a misty veil enfolds the town.
While the vile mortals of the multitude,By pleasure, cruel tormentor, goaded on,Gather remorseful blossoms in light mood --Grief, place thy hand in mine, let us be gone
Far from them. Lo, see how the vanished years,In robes outworn lean over heaven's rim;And from the water, smiling through her tears,
Remorse arises, and the sun grows dim;And in the east, her long shroud trailing light,List, O my grief, the gentle steps of Night.
