The desolation of the soul,
When the rough, gale hath ceased to blow,
Yet o'er it bids the billow roll.
A helmless wreck upon the tide—
An earthquake's ruin wrapped in gloom—
A gnarled oak blasted in its pride—
Are feeble emblems of my doom.
There is a tongue in every leaf,
A sigh in every tossing tree—
A murmur in each wave; of grief