O day, so sicklied o’er with night!
O dreadful fruit of fallen dusk!—
A Circe orange, golden-bright,
With horror ’neath its husk.—
And I, who gave the promise heed
That made life’s tempting surface fair,
Have I not eaten to the seed
Its ashes of despair!
O silence of the drifted grass!
And immemorial eloquence
Of stars and winds and waves that pass!
And God’s indifference!
Leave me alone with sleep that knows
Not anything that life may keep—
Not e’en the pulse that comes and goes
In germs that climb and creep.
Or if an aspiration pale
Must quicken there—oh, let the spot
Grow weeds! that dust may so prevail
Where spirit once could not!