WHEN the night watches slowly downwards creep,
And heavy darkness lays her leaden wings
On aged eyes that ache but cannot weep,
For burning time hath dried the water-springs—
Yearneth the watcher then with sleepless pain
For eager hearts that in the grave lie cold,
For all the toil and pride of years made vain,
And grieveth sore to be alive, and old.
Without, the lost wind desolately crying
Scatters poor spring's frail children rent and torn,
And when the moon looks, wearily a-dying,
A moment 'thwart her shroud, faint and forlorn,
Gleams ghostly through the trees her fickle light
On barren blossoms, strewn upon the night.