II.

Dumb waits the dim, broad land, Like one who hears, yet cannot understand, Tidings of grief to come. The woods and waters, with the winds, are dumb. But now a breeze has found Sorrowful voice, and sobs along the ground: “Oh the lost light, the last, the best lost light! No more on field and wave!”

_What now remains, what now remains but night?_ _Night hopeless, since the moon is in her grave!_