Sad soul—dear heart, O why repine?
The melancholy tale is plain;
The leaves of spring, the summer flowers
Have bloomed and died again.
The sweet and silver-sandaled Dew,
Which, like a maiden, fed the flowers,
Hath waned into the beldame Frost,
And walked amid our bowers.
Some buds there were—sad hearts, be still!
Which looked awhile unto the sky,