  Not in the eyed, expectant gloom, Where soaring peaks repose And incommunicable space Companions with the snows; Not in the glimmering dusk that crawls Upon the clouded sea, Where bourneless wave on bourneless wave Complains continually; Not in the palpable dark of woods Where groping hands clutch fear, Does Night her deeps of solitude Reveal unveiled as here. The street is a grim caÑon carved In the eternal stone, That knows no more the rushing stream It anciently has known. The emptying tide of life has drained The iron channel dry. Strange winds from the forgotten day Draw down, and dream, and sigh. The narrow heaven, the desolate moon Made wan with endless years, Seem less immeasurably remote |
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