By tearful maidens of a funeral band.
Of all the wealth of Autumn now is left
But that to wound the memory; bereft
Is he who wanders in this barren glade.
No more I linger in the Lydian wood,
And wait Silenos by each dell and spring;
No more the gloaming seems or warm or good
When everything of joy has taken wing.
I e'en despair of Hellas in my pain;
I walk an endless line of cypress shade;