O'er whose cold heads Æolus grieves,
Complaining, dying.
'Tis weary, dreary, dreary here,
The yellow leaves are falling sere,
With mournful rustling,
The little bird has hush'd his song,
And close the greener boughs among
He's coldly nestling.
How sad the high wind's sounding dirge,
As 'twere old ocean's moaning surge,