Here where the day is dimmest,
And silence company,
Some might find sympathy
For loss, or grief the grimmest,
In each great-hearted tree—
Here where the day is dimmest—
But, ah, there's none for me!
In leaves might find communion,
Returning sigh for sigh,
For love the heavens deny;
The love that yearns for union,
Yet parts and knows not why.—
In leaves might find communion—
But, ah, not I, not I!
My eyes with tears are aching.—
Why has she written me?
And will no longer see?—
My heart with grief is breaking,
With grief that this should be—
My eyes with tears are aching—
Why has she written me?
4
He proceeds in the direction of a stream.
Better is death than sleep,
Better for tired eyes.—
Why do we weep and weep
When near us the solace lies?
There in that stream, that, deep,—
Reflecting woods and skies,—
Could comfort all our sighs.
The mystery of things,
Of dreams, philosophies,
'Round which the mortal clings,
That can unriddle these.—
What is't the water sings?
What is't it promises?—
End to all miseries!