Desolate!

DESOLATE! How the Peaks of ashen gray,
The smoky Mists that drift from hill to hill,
The Waters dark, anticipate this day
That sullen desolation. Oh, how still
The shadows come and vanish, with no will!
How still the Waters watch the heaven's array!
How still the melancholy vapours stray,
Mirror'd below, and drifting on, fulfil
Thy mandate as they mingle! — Not a sound,
Save that deep murmur of a torrent near,
Deepening silence. Hush! the dark profound
Groans, as some gray crag loosens and falls sheer
To the abyss. Wildly I look around,
O Spirit of the Human, are Thou here!