Page:In memoriam (IA inmemoriam00tennrich).pdf/118



thou thus, dim dawn, again, And howlest, issuing out of night, With blasts that blow the poplar white, And lash with storm the streaming pane?

Day, when my crown'd estate begun To pine in that reverse of doom, Which sicken'd every living bloom, And blurr'd the splendour of the sun;

Who usherest in the dolorous hour With thy quick tears that make the rose Pull sideways, and the daisy close Her crimson fringes to the shower;

Who might'st have heaved a windless flame Up the deep East, or, whispering, play'd A chequer-work of beam and shade From hill to hill, yet look'd the same,