Unbar, O heavy clouds, the gated West!
That this most weary day, beholding so
Her goal, may hasten her sad steps; I know
She comes without fair gifts; upon her breast
Close-clasped, the pale cold hands together pressed
Hold nothing;—then let some red sunset glow
Tempt her to seek the unknown world below
The far horizon where she hopes for rest!
At last the day, like some poor toil-worn slave,
Passes, and leaves in sooth no gift for me;—
Yet I, who thought my heart could be so brave
To bear what I had wisdom to foresee,
Sob in despair, as this poor day that gave
Me nothing, sinks behind the western sea!