A thick white mist lies heavy on the vale —
Heavy, and soft, and cold; on either hand,
Ghosts of themselves, the trees and hedges stand,
Nor black nor green, but vaguely dull and pale;
And in the clotted air, our lambs' weak wail
Is stifled; and a silent spectral band
Of cattle moves across the shadowless land,
Wherein all forms are blurr'd, all voices fail.
Ah me, how like is this our stern sad spring
To life's yet sterner autumn! Such a mist,
So cold, so formless, from the Lethe-stream
Rises and spreads, and blots out everything
That we have keenly loved and warmly kiss'd;
Till we too are but figures in a dream.