What then?—I do not know, no more do you—

And so good night.—Return we to our story:

'T was in November, when fine days are few,

And the far mountains wax a little hoary,

And clap a white cape on their mantles blue;[Y]And the sea dashes round the promontory,

And the loud breaker boils against the rock,

And sober suns must set at five o'clock.