Light lingers — but the world is cold —
The mists along the river slowdy creep,
The dull trees, heavy with their weight of sleep,
Their leaves around them closely fold.
Fast falls the night, — the thickening shadows grow,
And like a lifeless mass the great earth lies;
No sound is here, except the night-bird's cries,
Nor motion, but the river's sluggish flow.
There the black city holds its silent place,
The flitting lights have vanished one by one;
The crowded thousands, with their day's work done,
Are slumbering somewhere in its dark embrace.
The light is gone, and darkness covers all, —
The river-mists, the trees, the distant hills,
The sobbing of the tiny mountain rills, —
Darkness has fallen o'er them as a pall.
The hours creep on, — lo! quivering light-beams pass
From reed to reed along the river-shore;
The birds are whisp'ring that the night is o'er,
The silent river gleams like tinted glass.
The west is glimmering, — greys and reds and blues,
Growing to splendor like a thing divine;
And in the east, over the mountain line,
Comes morning, floating on a thousand hues.
