While dirges ring in mine alone,
Solemn as monumental stone.
Thy life is Spring, but Autumn mine;
Thy hope all flowers; mine bitter fruit,
For hope but blossoms to repine;
It seldom hath a second shoot;—
A shadow that evades pursuit.
Though poets are not prophets here,
Yet Time must pass and you will see,
While o’er dead joys you drop the tear,