No star is o'er the lake, its pale watch keeping, The moon is half awake, through grey mist creeping. The last red leaves fall round the porch of roses, The clock has ceased to sound. The long day closes. Sit by the silent hearth in calm endeavour, To count the sound of mirth, now dumb forever. Heed not how hope believes and fate disposes: Shadow is round the eaves. The long day closes. The lighted windows dim are fading slowly. The fire that was so trim now quivers lowly. Go to the dreamless bed where grief reposes. Thy book of toil is read. The long day closes.
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