I always loved this solitary hill And this green hedge that hides on every side The last and dim horizon from our view. But as I sit and gaze, a never-ending Space far beyond it and unearthly silence And deepest quiet to my thought I picture, And as with terror is my heart o'ercast With wondrous awe. And while I hear the wind Amid the green leaves rustling, I compare That silence infinite unto this sound, And to my mind eternity occurs, And all the vanished ages, and the present; Whose sound doth meet mine ear. And so in this Immensity my thought is drifted on, And to be wrecked on such a sea is sweet.
The night is fair, without a breath of wind, And on the roofs and gardens full of peace The moon reposes and reveals afar Each mountain all serene. O my beloved! The haunts of men are silent; in their homes Rarely doth glimmer a nocturnal lamp. Thou art asleep, by gentle slumber wrapped Within thy quiet room; no carking care Disturbs thy rest; nor dost thou know or think How deep a wound thou openedst in my heart. Thou art asleep; I sally forth to greet The firmament, to gaze on so benign, And Nature, mighty in her ancient ways, Who made me but for woe. "To thee be hope Denied," she said, "even hope; and in thine eyes No other light, save that of tears, may shine." This day was full of pleasure; from thy pastime Thou now dost take repose: perchance in dreams Those who pleased thee and whom thyself did please, Thou seest; but not I, for all my hopes, Occur unto thy fancy. I, meanwhile, I ask myself how much of life remains For me to live, and here upon the earth, Moaning and shuddering, do I throw me down In utter desolation. O ye days So full of horror for such early years! Ah, woe is me! Upon the road not far I hear a workman's solitary song; After his joyaunce, in late hours of night He is returning to his poor abode; And bitterly my heart is rent in twain When I consider all on earth doth pass And leaveth not a trace. Behold! the day Of joy is gone, and to its festive hours The day of toil succeeds, and time doth take Whate'er belongs to man. Where, where is now The pride of ancient nations? Where the fame Of our renowned forefathers, and the vast Dominion of old Rome, the clash of arms Resounding o'er the ocean and the earth? All now is peace and silence, and the world Is wrapped in rest, and speaks of them no more. In those beginning years, when eagerly We seek the festive day, I lay awake When it was over, tossing full of grief Upon my bed; and in late hours of night A song I heard upon the road without, Expiring in the distance by degrees, With equal sorrow rent my heart in twain.