The light declines in waning gold

  Amidst the stars now ashen-grey,

  Lost in the pallor of decay,

  Silence in the gathering cold.

  Now, in lunar interludes,

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  The soul at last finds its rest,

  and in the darkness makes its nest

  In shadows where the silence broods;

  And from the soul new light is born,

  that then this world now passes by;

  To me it seems the futile sigh

  Exhaled by distant moons forlorn.