No star is o'er the lake,
Its pale watch keeping,
The moon is half awake,
Through gray mist creeping,
The last red leaves fall round
The porch of roses,
The clock hath ceased to sound,
The long day closes.

Sit by the silent hearth
In calm endeaver,
To count the sounds of mirth,
Now dumb for ever.
Heed not how hope believes
And fate disposes:
Shadow is round the eaves,
The log day closes;

The lighted windows dim
Are fading slowly.
The fire that was so trim
Now quivers lowly.

Go to the dreamless bed
Where grief reposes.
Thy book of toil is read,
The long day closes.