III.
Yet let me keep the old observances!
—Though, stripped of their sweet meanings, they to me
Be melancholy now as leafless trees:
Yet will I keep them, fruitless though they be;
And in that arbour of cold Memory
Take oft my pleasure when the wind is low,
And winter strong, and the tired world runs slow,
And with my soul the outer things agree.
I draw—I know it well—from a cold breast
These heartless words; and yet I can perceive
That I may find in time some safer rest:
Although my earth no more with Noon be bright,
May not this dulness be the fading Eve,
When shall be born the clear dark holy Night?