Poems by William Henry Giles Kingston

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Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
When the warm sun, that brings
With what a glory comes and goes the year!
On sunny slope and beechen swell
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,
When the hours of Day are numbered,
When the dying flame of day
I heard the trailing garments of the Night
King Christian stood by the lofty mast
Yes, the Year is growing old,
Bell! thou soundest merrily,
From the French of Charles D'Orleans, Fifteenth Century.
I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch
I have read, in some old marvellous tale,
And now, behold! as at the approach of morning
The night is come, but not too soon;
There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
Longing already to search in and round
Pleasant it was, when woods were green,
When winter winds are piercing chill