And robbed the flowers of their melodies,
The wind has gathered a host of clouds,
And smitten the earth with gloom.
The wind has blown out the golden lights
That hang from laburnum boughs,
Till nude and stripped of their past delights
The branches sigh through the stormy nights,
Like nuns who weep for their buried youth,
And murmur their mournful vows.
The wind has covered the hills with mist,