THE EQUINOX
The old brown mellow houses grow mellower in the nightfall ;
A ccharméd air is about them of the keen old days that
are dead.
Oh, hushed is the song of the morning, hushed in the tremu-
lous light-fall,
For the light is fading slowly now, and all the legends
are said,
And all the glamour is fled.
Here in the soft grey twilight the mournful evening lingers
Upon the road to dream and sleep and all the things that
are past ;
Here in the shadowy night-fall, with slow reluctant fingers,
The poet touches the silent strings, and falls into calm at
last
As the night grows dim and vast.
And the passionate hour of love, of love, is come unto dust
and slumber,
A gracious memory only stays, a passionless sense remains
Of golden hours that are passed and fled, when the joys of love
without number
Fanned into fire his smouldering heart, and turned into
flame his brains
With purple and crimson stains.
And the hour of the Rose is fallen, and the light of her eyes is
fled,
There is only a sense of vaguest dream, of calm, unending
repose
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