These come and go, with morn and even-fall,
How can I tell how I have passed them all?
Well, I have borne them all!
Hope gleamed awhile, but fled unsatisfied,
The flower sprang up, but drooped and fruitless died:
The silver bow of Ede shone above all,
But never came the looked-for Festival:
I saw the splendour of the season wane,
Never the benediction of the rain
Fell on my parchéd heart: the thunder loud