In those parting days of yore!
In the deepest dearth of night
When the starry dome was bright,
Came the angels round her bed;
And they numbered with the dead
My angelic, radiant Love
Whom the seraphs named Lenore,
Wafting here away above,—
Saddest, saddest days of yore!
I am not a man who easily gives way to feeling; but the plaintiveness of the music and the mournfulness of the simple words made me forget the mysterious bard that was weaving this tale of pathos, and I bowed my head in sorrow, with my heart full of pity and love for both the afflicted and the noble-hearted sweet departed. As I did so, the threnodic notes, as if dying away in the echoing distance of the blue dome above, thus came from the heart of the other minne-singer.—