  Upon how many a hill, Across how many a field, Beside how many a river's whispery flowing, They stand, with eyes a-thrill, And hearts of day-rue healed, Gazing, O wistful sun, upon thy going! They have forgotten life, Forgotten sunless death; Desire is gone—is it not gone for ever? No memory of strife Have they, or pain-sick breath, No hopes to fear or fears hope cannot sever. Silent the gold steals down The west, and mystery Moves deeper in their hearts and settles darker. 'Tis faded—the day's crown; But strange and shadowy They see the Unseen as night falls stark and starker. Like priests whose altar fires Are spent, immovable They stand, in awful ecstasy uplifted. Zephyrs awake tree-lyres, The starry deeps are full, Earth with a mystic majesty is gifted. Ah, sunset-lovers, though Time were but pulsing pain, And death no more than its eternal ceasing, Would you not choose the throe, Hold the oblivion vain, To have beheld so many days releasing? |
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