WHAT sunset goldens here,
Where love is merely pale?
Is one perfecting rose-blush feeble there,
Because my sorrow wears this purple veil.

Pure crown upon the lone
Bare mist, whose lonely grief
Is glorified in thee? Nay, get thee gone;
Thou art less welcome than a dead year's leaf.

In darkness and deep night
Where stars are black, I dream:
Leaving to him rising and setting light,
Leaving clear flowers and every star to him.