NIGHTFALL.

O day, so sicklied o'er with night!

O dreadful fruit of fallen dusk!—

A Circe orange, golden-bright,

With horror‘ neath its husk.

And I, who gave the promise heed

That made life's tempting surface fair,

Have I not eaten to the seed

Its ashes of despair!

O silence of the drifted grass!

And immemorial eloquence

Of stars and winds and waves that pass!

And God's indifference!

Leave me alone with sleep that knows

Not any thing that life may keep —

Not e'en the pulse that comes and goes

In germs that climb and creep.

Or if an aspiration pale

Must quicken there — oh, let the spot

Grow weeds! that dost may so prevail,

Where spirit once could not!