She comes not: in the summer night
The trembling river runneth bright.
O look again, fond heart of love,
On darkling earth, on heaven above.
Behold, the poplar trees divide
The long-drawn space where sunset died:
There still is the redly ebbing light
Dying beneath the hand of night.
The cloud-bars now with solemn pain
Upclose, and all is wrapped in rain:
Ah no, that sky holds not her form;
It is the altar of the storm. —
Earth, that so many flowers hast,
So many fields, such meadows vast,
So many paths for gentle feet,
Hast thou no place for her, most sweet?
No, no: night's wimple creeps apace
Upon thy coldly darkling face;
Thy wind-swept trees bow low to me,
Waving their hands in mockery.