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As dim light pervades the virgin hills,
And round crescents of Ghilgai's shadows lie,
With no blaze of sun to gild the sands,
The clouds yet preclude the azure sky.
There the spectre of reformer fades,
Dissolved into some mortal shrine
Preserved there by Summers Angel,
That stores the fruits of warmer clime.
Yet the savage flashes of crimson din,
Fails to the hapless light restore,
As torrential drench cleanses the sin,
That the light revealed a gloat before.
Measure by change and lost in time,
There is nothing left now to define.
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