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And is this day, or is it night,
That is neither dark nor light?


Day is dead and laid in fog--
Nothing but the fog we see--
The fog and our own breath;
Nothing hear but the night watch-dog,
That howls in time of death;
A raven croaking in a tree,
And a robin in the loaning
Weeping out a mournful ditty.--
All the earth is full of pity:
Surely it has ceased to work,
It is so deeply hush'd. Yet, hark!
No, no--it is the deep sea moaning--
Nothing from the city!
City, village, upland steading--
All are buried in the gloom,
Each within a breathing tomb.--
Alike from outer life are hidden
Lowly cot and lordly seat.
The garrulous road, the hedge that lay
Along the pad, our very feet
Are spirited away.
Wrapt in cloud, on solid land
We do not seem to stand;
But in a mazy heaven each man
Glides, horizon'd by a span.


This is neither day nor night,
Call it what we may;
It has lost the spirit Light;
'Tis but the ghost of Day!