Under the icy arches of the north,
And o’er the still graves of the seasons lost,
Blustered the winter forth.
Spring, with your crown of roses budding new,
Thought-nursing and most melancholy fall,
Summer, with bloomy meadows wet with dew,
Blighting your beauties all.
O heart, your spring-time dream will idle prove,
Your summer but forerun the autumn’s death,
The flowery arches in the home of love