Sunset.

THE sun’s red glory vanishes amid complaining waves,
Bright beings always go thus, sink down into dark graves;
Not only death but life hath graves than death, O, far more dreary;
High hopes and feelings melt away and then come days most weary;
Angels from heaven on earth appear, but soon their light grows dim,
And all forlorn they mourn the past—must it be so with him!