On the hill the night is cool and sweet;
the grass is soft as a woman's hair;
but I hear no more, no more the beat
of wings through the silver air.
We stood by the bridge. The willow-tree
trailed listless fingers in the brook.
The moonlight curdled. Nothing to me
her tears, and her faery look.
Strange how sluggish and stale my blood
now: but the end of the meteor's flash
is a cold stone stuck in the earth's dank mud:
and the end of the fire is ash.
On the hill the night is sweet and cool
and the grass is soft as a woman's breast.
Well, it's little to reck if a man's a fool,
he still may take his rest.