O hush, sweet birds, that linger in lonely song!
Hold in your evening fragrance, wet May--bloom!
In the shadow of a broken house,
Down a deserted street,
Propt walls, cold hearths, and phantom stairs,
And the silence of dead feet —
O my peace, O well
So deep no thought could sound it,
Whence arose thy spell
When in my heart I found it?
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
It is early morning within this room; without,
Dark and damp; without and within, stillness
Waiting for day: not a sound but a listening air.
The Genius of an hour that fading day
Resigned to wide--haired Night's impending brow
Stole me apart, I knew not where nor how,
Time has stored all, but keeps his chronicle
In secret, beyond all our probe or gauge.
There flows the human story, vast and full;
O you that facing the mirror darkly bright
In the shadowed corner, loiter shyly fond,
To ask of your own sad eyes a comfort slight,
Move onward, Time, and bring us sooner free
From this self--clouding turmoil where we ply
On others' errands driven continually: