A low, sad wind fills the lone night

With its one solitary sound.

I have forgotten what delight

Delight has. In the vague around

All sleep is consecrated ground.

Alas for all I ever hoped!

The sheep crop what it lies beneath.

Its grave is where the mountain sloped

When mountains were, but now the heath

Is all the life above its death.

Moan, solitary wind that wakes

When the day sleeps! Moan vague and low!

That which I never was now slakes

Its thirst where reeds cluster round lakes

Of silence, or mute rivers go.

To‑morrow shall be yesterday

Lest life forget what it is ever.

I shall myself cast this away

That I am now, and myself sever

From what of me weeps by this river.

This river of the haunted night

That under stars I do not see

Has neither purpose nor delight,

Moan, solitary wind, and be

This life's unchanging, shoreless sea!