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THE RECLUSE
Long ends of autumn, winters, springs re-drenched with gloom,
You seasons dim with sleep! I love and laud you, fain
To fold about my heart and my oblivious brain
Your vaporous pall and vague, itinerary tomb.
In the void plain where boreal blasts are revelling,
Where wheels the weathervane through the delaying night,
Better than in soft summer dawns, with more delight,
My soul most amply will unfurl her raven wing.
To a heart replete with funeral memories numberless
Whereon autumnal frosts have fallen from old time,
Naught is more sweet, O queenliest seasons of our clime,
Than the abiding train of your pale darknesses,—
Unless it be, some evening when the moon is dead,
To enslumber all our grief upon a chanceful bed.
(sixty)
