O Love, my Love, this sweetest love may flee
But ever grief has cruel constancy,
Late I bode me with dull-shrouded sorrow,
And well I know her doleful voice again.
Hark! the breezes from the nightshade borrow
A heavy burden of lament and pain,
And where Delight held lately sweet hey-day,
Now like spectres pallid moonbeams play,
Very still the little rosebud sleeps,
Heavily the drooping myrrh tree weeps