After Tempest

The dews of the evening are scattered,
And the woods weep;
The banners of thunder hang tattered
Over the deep:
Now that the storms are gone,
Why are the heavens wan,
Waiting for sleep?
Tear-drops of sorrow are falling
From tired eyes:
The depths of the spirit are calling,
Sighs unto sighs:

Yearning is spent,
Passion hath rent
The veil that she lent
To hide the calm skies.
The sweet stars are lying
Bare to the night;
But one heart is dying
After the fight.
Is there hope, little star.
So faint and so far.
Is there yet any light?

Down in the valley, oh listen!
Lute-strings are loud:
And lo, where the moon-beams glisten
From the dark cloud!
Soul full of sorrow.
Shadows will fly:
Wait for no morrow;
Singing is nigh.