“Welcome” at morn and kind “good night!”
But, when the quiet eve comes on,
I feel that thou indeed art gone.
That herald of delight to me
Is joyless now, for “Where is he?”
I have not seen the crimson dye,
Which sunset gives the western sky,
Since on thy couch of death thou lay
And watched its glories fade away.
Those hues, so oft admired with thee,