THE silent mountains, purple-robed, like kings,
Stand waiting for the coming of the night.
They feel her solemn presence as the light
Fades slowly from their crowns. The sun-god flings
His last red beams, tingeing the silver wings
Advertisement
Of clouds rejoicing in their eastward flight.
Will they be first to see his chariot bright
Emerging from the ocean, when he brings
His bride, the Day, to glad the world again?
Ah! soon they vanish from the sight of men,
In darkness flying on, their fate the wind.
The rosy hues of hope are often vain.
Fate is relentless, as we mortals find.
Farewell, ye clouds, to your own future blind.
Want to keep up with breaking news?
Subscribe to our email newsletter.
Read more in News
Rules under which the Class Races will be Rowed.
