'Tis scarcely four by the village clock,
The dew is heavy, the air is cool--
A mist goes up from the glassy pool,
Through the dim field ranges a phantom flock:
No sound is heard but the magpie's mock.
Very low is the sun in the sky,
It needeth no eagle now to regard him.
Is there not one lark left to reward him
With the shivering joy of his long, sweet cry,
For sad he seemeth, I know not why.
Through the ivied ruins of yonder elm
There glides and gazes a sadder face;
Spectre Queen of a vanished race--
'Tis the full moon shrunk to a fleeting film,
And she lingers for love of her ancient realm.
These are but selfish fancies, I know,
Framed to solace a secret grief--
Look again--scorning such false relief--
Dwarf not Nature to match thy woe--
Look again! whence do these fancies flow?
What is the moon but a lamp of fire
That God shall relume in His season? the Sun,
Like a giant, rejoices his race to run
With flaming feet that never tire
On the azure path of the starry choir.
The lark has sung ere I left my bed:
And hark! far aloft from those ladders of light
Many songs, not one only, the morn delight.
Then, sad heart, dream not that Nature is dead,
But seek from her strength and comfort instead.