The false fair days have flamed the livelong day,
And still they flicker in the brazen West.
Cast down thine eyes, poor soul, shut out the unblest:
A deadliest temptation. Come away.

All day they flashed in flakes of fire, that lay
The vintage low upon the hill's green breast,
The harvest low,—and o'er that faithfullest,
The blue sky ever beckoning, shed dismay.

Oh, clasp thy hands, grow pale, and turn again!
If all the future savoured of the past?
If the old insanity were on its way?

Those memories, must each anew be slain?
One fierce assault, the best, no doubt, the last!
Go pray against the gathering storm, go pray!