The leaden eyelids of wan twilight closeUpon the sun; and now the misty dewTrails its wet skirts across the glades, and throughThe tangled grasses of the meadow goes,Shaking a drop in every open rose,In every lily's cup; Yon dreary yewAlone looks darker for the tears that strewIts dusky leaves, and deeper shadow throws,And closer gathers; as if it would sitAs one who, mourning, wraps his mantle tight,And huddles nearer to the dismal sightOf some lost love; so yonder tree seems knitFast to the grave beneath; my heart takes flight,To that lone yew, and cowers under it.
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XXIV
written byBoker George Henry
© Boker George Henry
