Fragment II - Sunset

The day and its delights are done;     So all delights and days expire:     Down in the dim, sad West the sun     Is dying like a dying fire.     The fiercest lances of his light     Are spent; I watch him droop and die     Like a great king who falls in fight;     None dared the duel of his eye     Living, but, now his eye is dim,     The eyes of all may stare at him.     How lovely in his strength at morn     He orbed along the burning blue!     The blown gold of his flying hair     Was tangled in green-tressd trees,     And netted in the river sand     In gleaming links of amber clear;     But all his shining locks are shorn,     His brow of its bright crown is bare,     The golden sceptre leaves his hand,     And deeper, darker, grows the hue     Of the dim purple draperies     And cloudy banners round his bier.     O beautiful, rose-hearted dawn!     O splendid noon of gold and blue!     Is this wan glimmer all of you?     Where are the blush and bloom ye gave     To laughing land and smiling sea?     The swift lights that did flash and shiver     In diamond rain upon the river,     And set a star in each blue wave?     Where are the merry lights and shadows     That danced through wood and over lawn,     And flew across the dewy meadows     Like white nymphs chased by satyr lovers?     Faded and perished utterly.     All delicate and all rich colour     In flower and cloud, on lawn and lea,     On butterfly, and bird, and bee,     A little space and all are gone,     And darkness, like a raven, hovers     Above the death-bed of the day.          .         .         .         .         .          So, when the long, last night draws on,     And all the world grows ghastly gray,     We see our beautiful and brave     Wither, and watch with heavy sighs     The life-light dying in their eyes,     The love-light slowly fading out,     Leaving no faint hope in their place,     But only on each dear wan face     The shadow of a weary doubt,     The ashen pallor of the grave.     O gracious morn and golden noon!     With what fair dreams did ye depart,     Beloved so well and lost so soon!     I could not fold you to my breast:     I could not hide you in my heart;     I saw the watchers in the West,     Sad, shrouded shapes, with hands that wring     And phantom fingers beckoning!