How full of God those evening skies, Arrayed in calmest loveliness; But ah! To think how many eyes Are wet with weeping none the less. Nay, hearts are aching, eyes are wet The more that they so richly glow, Since in the past some glory set, To leave them in the dark of woe. To leave them dark, and such a tinge O?er every aftersunset throw, That it should only seem to fringe The pall of a dead long ago. Ah well-a-day! But so it is, Pale sorrow groaneth everywhere, And pain and loss we cannot miss; To think is almost to despair.