Its throbs I felt no more; my love Within me seemed to die; Nor from my frozen, senseless breast Escaped a single sigh!
I wept o’er my sad, hapless lot; The life of life seemed lost; The earth an arid wilderness, Locked in eternal frost;
The day how dreary, and the night How dull, and dark, and lone! The moon for me no brightness had, No star in heaven shone.
And yet the old love was the cause Of all the tears I shed; Still in my inmost breast I felt The heart was not yet dead.
My weary fancy still would crave The images it loved, And its capricious longings still A source of sorrow proved.
But e’en that lingering spark of grief Was soon within me spent, And I the strength no longer had To utter a lament.
And there I lay, stunned, stupefied, Nor asked for comfort more; My heart to hopeless, blank despair Itself had given o’er.
How changed, alas, was I from him Who once with passion thrilled, Whose ardent soul was ever, once, With sweet illusions filled!
The swallow to my window, still, Would come, to greet the dawn; But his sweet song no echo found In my poor heart, forlorn.
Nor pleased me more, in autumn gray, Upon the hill-side lone, The cheerful vesper-bell, or light Of the departing sun.