I
What now remains, what now remains but night?
Night hopeless, since the moon is in her grave!
Late came a glorious light
In one wide flood on spire and field and wave.
It found a flowing way
To secret places where the dead leaves lay;
It won the half-hid stream
To shy remembrance of her morning gleam;
Then on the sky’s sharp shore
Rolled back, a fading tide, and was no more.
No more on spire and ivied window bright!
No more on field and wave!
_What now remains, what now remains but night?
Night hopeless, since the moon is in her grave!_