I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden day,

And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing throws

A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes;

A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair,

Moves wonderfully away from amid the young and fair.

Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly decays!

Oh, crimson flush of morning, that darkens as we gaze!

Oh, breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air

Scatters a moment’s sweetness and flies we know not where.