There are some hours when I seem so indifferent; all things fade br To an indifferent greyness, like that grey of the sky; br Always at evening-ends, on grey days; and I know not why, br But life, and art, and love, and death, are the shade of a shade. br Then, in those hours, I hear old voices murmur aloud, br And memory forgoes desire, too weary at heart for regret; br Dreams come with beckoning fingers, and I forget to forget; br The world as a cloud drifts by, or I drift by as a cloud.