Art mourning for thy season of delight—
For lo! the cheerful months forsake thee quite,
And all thy sunshine into shadow dies—
O thou who art acquainted with unrest!
Could thy poor wit my kindred mood divine,
How wouldst thou fold thy wings upon my breast,
And blend thy melancholy plaint with mine!
I know not if with thine my songs would rhyme,
For haply she thou mournest is not dead:
Less kind are death and heaven unto me;