Dumb waits the dim, broad land,
Like one who hears, yet cannot understand,
Tidings of grief to come.
The woods and waters, with the winds, are dumb.
But now a breeze has found
Sorrowful voice, and sobs along the ground:
“Oh, the lost light, the last, the best lost light!
No more on field and wave!”
_What now remains, what now remains but night?
Night hopeless, since the moon is in her grave!_