Not in the eyed, expectant gloom,
Where soaring peaks repose
And incommunicable space
Companions with the snows;
Not in the glimmering dusk that crawls
Upon the clouded sea,
Where bourneless wave on bourneless wave
Not in the palpable dark of woods
Where groping hands clutch fear,
Does Night her deeps of solitude
Reveal unveiled as here.
The street is a grim canon carved
In the eternal stone,
That knows no more the rushing stream
It anciently has known.
The emptying tide of life has drained
The iron channel dry.
Strange winds from the forgotten day
Draw down, and dream, and sigh.
The narrow heaven, the desolate moon
Made wan with endless years,
Seem less immeasurably remote
Than laughter, love, or tears.