When the sun is sunk and the woods wave
Their dark boughs to the sky,
And the sea leaps sullen and quiet,
And the birds sit silently,
Jewel-eyed and carved on the dream-like boughs,
My heart beats restlessly.

O in the quiet of the dove-grey sky
Some holy land there may be,
Where a man may ride in solitude,
Yet not unhappily —
But to ride through this shadow-crowded world,
God! it is lonely!

The singing, the laughter, men's clear eyes,
Hollow as elfin bells,
Slim girls, falling rain, friends drinking
But air-linked syllables —
They are more wandering than any voice
Of cuckoo in hill-heaped dells.

And even this dove-grey sea and sky
Is so quiet a mystery,
That I feel it may suddenly fade away
With its carved mountain imagery;
And I close my eyes and it disappears,
And chill it is and airy!

And the shadows flock to my ears and touch
In soft and populous cries,
My heart is beleaguered in the dark;
A crowd pushes close and sighs —
Very still, wide-awake and watchful,
The lonely sentinel dies.