INSOMNIA.

It seems that dawn will never climb

The eastern hills;

And, clad in mist and flame and rime,

Make flashing highways of the rills.

The night is as an ancient way

Through some dead land,

Whereon the ghosts of Memory

And Sorrow wander hand in hand.

By which man's works ignoble seem,

Unbeautiful;

And grandeur, but the ruined dream

Of some proud queen, crowned with a skull.

A way past-peopled, dark and old,

That stretches far —

Its only real thing, the cold

Vague light of sleep's one fitful star.