A Lament


The sun looks from a cloudy sky,
On yellow bleaching reeds. —
The river streams run muddy by,
Among the flags and reeds.
And nature seems so lost and coy,
All silent and alone;
Left here without a single joy,
Or love to call my own.


How mournful now the river seems,
Adown the vale to run;
That ran so sweet in my young dreams,
And glittered in the sun.
Now cold and dead, the meadow lies,
And muddy runs the stream:
The lark on drooping pinion flies, —
And spoiled is pleasures dream.


The wind comes moaning through the trees, —
No maiden passes by.
And all the summer melodies, —
Are uttered in a sigh.
On many a knoll I set me down,
Beneath a silent sky,
And of the past all seem to frown,
And pass in sorrow by.
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