Contemplation

Thou, o my Grief, be wise and tranquil still

the eve is thine which even now drops down

to carry peace or care to human will

and in a misty veil enfolds the town

while the vile mortals of the multitude

by pleasure, cruel tormentor, goaded on

gather remorseful blossoms in light mood

Grief, place thy hand in mine, let us be gone

far from them. Lo, see how the vanished years

in robes outworn lean over heaven's rim

and from the water, smiling through her tears

remorse arises, and the sun grows dim

and in the east, her long shroud trailing light

list, o my Grief, the gentle steps of Night