As clouds pile up against the golden sun.
Alas! what have I done? What have I done?
I never steep the rosy hours in sleep,
Or hide my soul, as in a gloomy crypt;
No idle hands into my bosom creep;
And yet, as water-drops from house-eaves drip,
So, viewless, melt my days, and from me run;
Alas! what have I done? What have I done?
I have not missed the fragrance of the flowers,
Or scorned the music of the flowing rills,