The rosy twilights and the moons of May,
Beneath whose beams we loved the hours away,
Are gone—and gone the ruddy ember-gloom,
That filled with lurid light our silent room,
When o’er our hall the wintry tempest flew,
And love our yearning hearts together drew.
My stay, my life, my hope, my star is gone—
And I am left in sorrow and alone;
The oak is stricken from the vine’s embrace,
And on the earth its tendrils run to waste!