  U Unbar, O heavy clouds, the gated West! That this most weary day, beholding so Her goal, may hasten her sad steps; I know She comes without fair gifts; upon her breast Close-clasped, the pale cold hands together pressed Hold nothing;—then let some red sunset glow Tempt her to seek the unknown world below The far horizon where she hopes for rest! At last the day, like some poor toil-worn slave, Passes, and leaves in sooth no gift for me;— Yet I, who thought my heart could be so brave To bear what I had wisdom to foresee, Sob in despair, as this poor day that gave |
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