February Night

O Weariness, that writest histories On all these human faces, and O Sighs That somewhere silence hears! You have no part, It seems, in the old earth's deep--flowering heart; Your way of solace is a different way. A colour comes upon the end of day. At this street--corner, budded branches bare Trace springing lines upon the tender air; But over the far misty flush one's eye Lights at an apparition: lo, on high The little moon! as if she came all fresh Into this world, where our brief blood and flesh Is weary of burdens. She has seen all earth's Most mighty races in their ends and births, And all the glory and sorrow wrought and sung Since lips found language; and to--night is young.