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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374290" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Moonrise Over Tyringham</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now the high holocaust of hours is done,<br>And all the west empurpled with their death,<br>How swift oblivion drinks the fallen sun,<br>How little while the dusk remembereth!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Though some there were, proud hours that marched in mail,<br>And took the morning on auspicious crest,<br>Crying to fortune “Back, for I prevail!”—<br>Yet now they lie disfeatured with the rest;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And some that stole so soft on destiny<br>Methought they had surprised her to a smile;<br>But these fled frozen when she turned to see,<br>And moaned and muttered through my heart awhile.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But now the day is emptied of them all,<br>And night absorbs their life-blood at a draught;<br>And so my life lies, as the gods let fall<br>An empty cup from which their lips have quaffed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet see—night is not . . . by translucent ways,<br>Up the grey void of autumn afternoon<br>Steals a mild crescent, charioted in haze,<br>And all the air is merciful as June.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The lake is a forgotten streak of day<br>That trembles through the hemlocks’ darkling bars,<br>And still, my heart, still some divine delay<br>Upon the threshold holds the earliest stars.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O pale equivocal hour, whose suppliant feet<br>Haunt the mute reaches of the sleeping wind,<br>Art thou a watcher stealing to entreat<br>Prayer and sepulture for thy fallen kind?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Poor plaintive waif of a predestined race,<br>Their ruin gapes for thee. Why linger here?<br>Go hence in silence. Veil thine orphaned face,<br>Lest I should look on it and call it dear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For if I love thee thou wilt sooner die;<br>Some sudden ruin will plunge upon thy head,<br>Midnight will fall from the revengeful sky<br>And hurl thee down among thy shuddering dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Avert thine eyes. Lapse softly from my sight,<br>Call not my name, nor heed if thine I crave,<br>So shalt thou sink through mitigated night<br>And bathe thee in the all-effacing wave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But upward still thy perilous footsteps fare<br>Along a high-hung heaven drenched in light,<br>Dilating on a tide of crystal air<br>That floods the dark hills to their utmost height.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Strange hour, is this thy waning face that leans<br>Out of mid-heaven and makes my soul its glass?<br>What victory is imaged there? What means<br>Thy tarrying smile? Oh, veil thy lips and pass.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nay . . . pause and let me name thee! For I see,<br>O with what flooding ecstasy of light,<br>Strange hour that wilt not loose thy hold on me,<br>Thou’rt not day’s latest, but the first of night!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And after thee the gold-foot stars come thick,<br>From hand to hand they toss the flying fire,<br>Till all the zenith with their dance is quick<br>About the wheeling music of the Lyre.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dread hour that lead’st the immemorial round,<br>With lifted torch revealing one by one<br>The thronging splendours that the day held bound,<br>And how each blue abyss enshrines its sun—</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Be thou the image of a thought that fares<br>Forth from itself, and flings its ray ahead,<br>Leaping the barriers of ephemeral cares,<br>To where our lives are but the ages’ tread,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And let this year be, not the last of youth,<br>But first—like thee!—of some new train of hours,<br>If more remote from hope, yet nearer truth,<br>And kin to the unpetitionable powers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edith+Wharton">Edith Wharton</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374290" data-title="Moonrise Over Tyringham de Edith Wharton" data-description="Now the high holocaust of hours is done,
And all the west empurpled with their death,
How swift oblivion drinks the fallen sun,
How little while the dusk remembereth!

Though some there were, proud hours that marched in mail,
And took the morning ..."></div>
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