blue hills, rolled,
Like some vast conflagration,
The sunset, flaming rose and gold,
We watched in exultation.
Then turning homeward, she and I
Went in love's sweet derangement--
How different now seem earth and sky,
Since this undreamed estrangement!

3

_He enters the woods. He sits down despondently._

Here where the day is dimmest,
And silence company,
Some might find sympathy
For loss, or grief the grimmest,
In each great-hearted tree--
Here where the day is dimmest--
But, ah, there's none for me!

In leaves might find communion,
Returning sigh for sigh,
For love the heavens deny;
The love that yearns for union,
Yet parts and knows not why.--
In leaves might find communion--
But, ah, not I, not I!

My eyes with tears are aching.--
Why has she written me?
And will no longer see?--
My heart with grief is breaking,
With grief that this should be--
My eyes with tears are aching--
Why has she written me?

4

_He proceeds in the direction of a stream._

Better is death than sleep,
Better for tired eyes.--
Why do we weep and weep
When near us the solace lies?
There in that stream, that, deep,--
Reflecting woods and skies,--
Could comfort all our sighs.

The mystery of things,
Of dreams, philosophies,
'Round which the mortal clings,
_That_ can unriddle these.--
What is't the water sings?
What is't it promises?--
End to all miseries!

5

_He seats himself on a rock and gazes steadily into the stream._

And here alone I sit and it is so!--
O vales and hills! O valley lands and knobs!
What cure have you for woe?
None that my heart may know!--
The wearying sameness!--yet this thing is so!--
This thing is so, and still the waters flow,
The leaves drop slowly down; the daylight throbs
With sun and wind, and yet this thing is so!--
Here, at this culvert's mouth,
The shadowy water, flowing towards the south,
Seems deepest, stagnant-stayed.--
What is there yonder that makes me afraid?--
Of my own self afraid?--what is't below?
What power draws me to the striate stream?
What evil or what dream?--
Me, dropping pebbles in the quiet wave,
That echoes, strange as music in a cave,
Hollow and thin; vibrating in the shade
Like sound of tears--the shadow of some woe,
An ailing phantom that will not be laid,
Since this is so, since this sad thing is so.

There, in