The church-yard is thy bleak abode;
Thy pillow now, a cold grave-stone—
And there thou lov’st to grieve—alone!
VI.
The rain has drench’d thee, all night long;
The nipping frost thy bosom froze;
And still, the yewtree-shades among,
I heard thee sigh thy artless woes;
I heard thee, till the day-star shone
In darkness weep—and weep alone!