While the bird in the bower sang lonesomely.
(Hark to the wind and the rain!)
The weary days and the months crept on,
(Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea,
The words of the dead are vain.)
At last the summer was over and gone,
And still she sat in her turret alone,
Her white hands clasping about her knee,
And the bird was mute in the rowan tree.
(Hark to the wind and the rain!)