Umbra Naturae
Upon this bank beneath these yellowing trees
Whereon the idle winds are wont to play
With minstrel fingers, at the close of day
I come to muse and breathe and take my ease.
To-night the river sleeps, my sentinel trees
Chant no sweet music,—the spent world is gray;
And like old nuns to prayer the gossiping day
Steals out before night's lordlier mysteries.
The world reflects the shadow of my mood,
Or I of its. Strange thoughts and stranger fears
Tangle my lyre; beheld through mist and tears
This silent lethean meadow, stream and wood
Seem like our lives, a dream—sad, baffled, brief:
Is mine their sorrow, or theirs my nameless grief?
Whereon the idle winds are wont to play
With minstrel fingers, at the close of day
I come to muse and breathe and take my ease.
To-night the river sleeps, my sentinel trees
Chant no sweet music,—the spent world is gray;
And like old nuns to prayer the gossiping day
Steals out before night's lordlier mysteries.
The world reflects the shadow of my mood,
Or I of its. Strange thoughts and stranger fears
Tangle my lyre; beheld through mist and tears
This silent lethean meadow, stream and wood
Seem like our lives, a dream—sad, baffled, brief:
Is mine their sorrow, or theirs my nameless grief?
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