Calm

Have patience, O my sorrow, and be still. You asked for night: it falls: it is here. A shadowy atmosphere enshrouds the hill, to some men bringing peace, to others care. While the vile human multitude goes to earn remorse, in servile pleasure’s play, under the lash of joy, the torturer, who is pitiless, Sadness, come, far away: Give me your hand. See, where the lost years lean from the balcony in their outdated gear, where regret, smiling, surges from the watery deeps. Underneath some archway, the dying light sleeps, and, like a long shroud trailing from the East, listen, dear one, listen to the soft onset of night.