148
THE VALLEY OF THE
Thy noon is passed: thy sun hath shone:
The brightness of thy day is gone—
What need to lag and linger on
Till life be cold and gray?
'O well,' it said, 'beneath yon pool,
In some still cavern deep,
The fevered brain might slumber cool,
The eyes forget to weep:
Within that goblet's mystic rim
Are draughts of healing, stored for him
Whose heart is sick, whose sight is dim,
Who prayeth but to sleep!'
The evening breeze went moaning by
Like mourner for the dead,
And stirred, with shrill complaining sigh,
The tree-tops overhead—
