IIA grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, In word, or sigh, or tear — O Lady! In this wan and heartless mood, To other thoughts by yonder throttle woo'd, All this long eve, so balmy and serene, Have I been gazing on the western sky, And its peculiar tint of yellow green:And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye! And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars;Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:Yon crescent Moon as fixed as if it grew In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;I see them all so excellently fair, I see, not feel how beautiful they are!III My genial spirits fail; And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?  It were a vain endeavor, Though I should gaze for Everton that green light that lingers in the west:I may not hope from outward forms to withe passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

The Complete Poems