DEAR is young morning's tender-hued attire:
To us and ours, 'stead of that promise, came
A brief and burning sunset, blood and flame,
And, looking on the end of our desire,
Yet said we, "What if fealty to a name
Have built our hearts' beloved a funeral pyre?
Their death hath kindled a fair beacon fire
To lighten all this world of fear and shame,
And none shall quench it." As the words were said,
Darkened and failed the strange, unearthly light,
And faded all the surging sea of gold,
And nought was left of the fierce glories fled
But ashen skies slow deepening into night,
Lit by pale memory's stars that shake for cold.