HERE in the figured dark I watch once more;
There with the curtain rolls a year away,
A year of years — There was an idle day
THE last light wanes and drifts across the land,
The low, long land, the sunny land of spires.
The ghosts of evening tune again their lyres
COME out . . . . out
To this inevitable night of mine
Oh you drinker of new wine,
The warm fire.
The comfortable chairs.
The merry companions.
WE leave to-night . . .
Silent, we filled the still, deserted street,
A column of dim gray,
Death slays the moon and the long dark deepens,
Hastens to the city, to the drear stone-heaps,
Films all eyes and whispers on the corners,
WATCHING through the long, dim hours
Like statued Mithras, stand ironic towers;
Their haughty lines severe by light