Thou sombre lady of down-bended head,
And weary lashes drooping to the cheek,
With sweet sad fold of lips uncomforted,
And listless hands more tired with strife than meek ;
Turn here thy soft brown feet, and to my heart,
Unmatched to Summer's golden minstrelsy,
Or Spring's shrill pipe of joy, sing once again Sad songs, and I to
Well tuned, will answer that according
That jarred with those young seasons' gladder strain.
Give me thy empty branches for the
Of perished joys, thy winds to sigh my sighs,
Thy falling leaves to count my falling tears,
And all thy mists to dim my aching eyes.
There is no comfort in thy lips, and
In thy cold arms, nor pity in thy breast,
But better 'tis in gray hours to have grief, Than to affront the
With sunless woe, when every flower and
Conspires to make the season merriest.
The drip of rain-drops on the sodden earth,
The trampled mud-stained grass, the shifting leaves,
The silent hurrying birds, the sickly
Of the red sun in misty skies, the
Of rotting ruined corn, the sudden
Of angry winds, the clouds that fly all
Before the stormy moon, thy desolate moans, All thy decays and rusts,
Thy deaths and dirges, these are tuned
To my unquiet soul that sorrow owns.
But ah ! thy gentler mood, the honeyed
Of thy faint watery sunshine, thy pale gold,
Thy dark red berries, and the
That paints the lingering leaves, while on the mould,
Their dead make bronze and sepia
That lightly rustle in thy quiet breath.
These are the shadows of departed smiles, The ghosts of happy things ;
These break again the broken heart, the
Thou goest onto winter,
I to Death.
