Solace

What mirth must I find -or estranged delight-

Beneath somber moon o'er sylvan bower

Whose silver grace finds me with loving light

When all I seek is but the gloaming hour?

For with my back turned fast from fading Sun

My heart newly braced against blackened sky

I find my forlorn gaze now freshly won

By that which no shadow may deign defy.

This mirth I must find -or estranged delight-

For that which lights my ever mournful night.