At the Season's End
A FEW more days in this unkind July,
This moon of stormy countenance livid and wan,
And you will hence have journeyed to put on
The moors and mountains like a robe laid by
And brought forth dipped in Nature's Tyrian dye.
For me, here lingering where your light hath shone,
A glamour will have passed, a witchery gone,
A vapid earth will wear a vacant sky.
Yet none the less our London as of old
Will throb with passionate heart-beats day by day,
And tower and spire will catch the dear last ray
Of suns that bid adieu with kiss of gold:
Thames will roll on, as long ago he rolled:
But 'mid wild glens you will be far away.
This moon of stormy countenance livid and wan,
And you will hence have journeyed to put on
The moors and mountains like a robe laid by
And brought forth dipped in Nature's Tyrian dye.
For me, here lingering where your light hath shone,
A glamour will have passed, a witchery gone,
A vapid earth will wear a vacant sky.
Yet none the less our London as of old
Will throb with passionate heart-beats day by day,
And tower and spire will catch the dear last ray
Of suns that bid adieu with kiss of gold:
Thames will roll on, as long ago he rolled:
But 'mid wild glens you will be far away.
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