The evening wind has lost its melody:
Hushed are the chords on every bending bough;
The waters have no voice of music now,
And silence, dove-like, broods upon the sea.
Is there no light, indeed—no joyous sound
When Beauty dwelt with Song, and Nature cast
Treasures of Summer happiness around?
Oh, yes! unchanged the verdant prospect lies—
The present is as lovely as the past—
It only lacks the lustre of thine eyes.