Meditation

  Be wise, O my Woe, seek thy grievance to drown,
  Thou didst call for the night, and behold it is here,
  An atmosphere sombre, envelopes the town,
  To some bringing peace and to others a care.

  Whilst the manifold souls of the vile multitude,
  'Neath the lash of enjoyment, that merciless sway,
  Go plucking remorse from the menial brood,
  From them far, O my grief, hold my hand, come this way.

  Behold how they beckon, those years, long expired,
  From Heaven, in faded apparel attired,
  How Regret, smiling, foams on the waters like yeast;

  Its arches of slumber the dying sun spreads,
  And like a long winding-sheet dragged to the East,
  Oh, hearken Beloved, how the Night softly treads!