302 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE
Now living things seem dead, And dead ones to a dreamy life are born, And shapeless visions sweep the air o'erhead,
Or walk the earth forlorn ;
Till from her cloudy cave Comes out in silvery robes night's beauteous queen, While each pale star peeps from his airy grave
Forth on the night serene.
But, hark ! that bird I hear, Which ever mourns at either end of day. Chiding the stars, or whether they appear,
Or whether fade away.
Sweet day ! Morn, noon, and night. Thou art all beautiful ! Through all thy range, Thus let me ever deem thee, with delight
Viewing thine every change !
And, should that day arrive When nature can no longer make me gay. May men regard me as no more alive,
And say, " He died that day."
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