What time unto my sad and mournful cry,
Unto the ill-tuned music of my lyre,
The hill and mead, the plain and stream reply
In bitter echo of my vain desire,
Then take thou, wind, that heedless hastenest by,
The plaints which from my breast, chilled with love's fire,
Issue in my despite, asking in vain
Succour from stream and hill, from mead and plain.
The stream is swollen by the tears which flow
Forth from my wearied eyes: the flowery mead