But Autumn had gone, having gathered her sheaves,
And the glories of Summer were past;
And Spring, with the swallows that built in the eaves,
Had left him the weakest and last!
So he sat there alone, for the world could not heal
A disease without pain, without care,—
Without joy, without hope, too insensate to feel,—
Too utterly lost for despair!
But he thought, while the night, and the darkness, and gloom,
That gathered around him so fast,