WHEN the gloom the light appalleth—
When no tear-dew ever falleth
Downward silently—
When the tired heart, from languor
Of Life's poor unmeaning clangour,
Droopeth wearily—
When the day, in its uprising,
Bringeth nought that's worth the prizing,
And the night, all dark and lonely,
No star showeth, but clouds only—
I think of thee.

Pleasures past, a ghastly vision—
Words and looks but now tradition
That thought brings;
Holy Kalends of past meetings
Rise again, with quick heart-beatings,
On spirit wings.
For a moment seems the vision
A reality Elysian
As the joy before the Fall;
While I gaze the brightness waneth,
Passeth, fadeth—what remaineth?
Ashes all!