Here is the long-bided hour: the labor of years is accom-
⁠plished.
Why should this sadness unplumbed secretly weigh on
⁠my heart?
Is it, my work being done, I stand like a laborer, useless,
One who has taken his pay, alien to unwonted tasks?
Is it the work I regret, the silent companion of midnight,
Friend of the golden-haired Dawn, friend of the gods
⁠of the hearth?