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.