O heart, that beat the bird's blithe blood,

      The blithe bird's message that pursued,

      Now song is dead as last year's bud,

      What dost thou in the wood?

      O soul, that kept the brook's glad flow,

      The glad brook's word to sun and moon,

      What dost thou here where song lies low

      As all the dreams of June?

      Where once was heard a voice of song,

      The hautboys of the mad winds sing;

      Where once a music flowed along,

      The rain's wild bugles ring.

      The weedy water frets and ails,

      And moans in many a sunless fall;

      And, o'er the melancholy, trails

      The black crow's eldritch call.

      Unhappy brook! O withered wood!

      O days, whom death makes comrades of!

      Where are the birds that thrilled the blood

      When life struck hands with love?

      A song, one soared against the blue;

      A song, one bubbled in the leaves;

      A song, one threw where orchards grew

      All appled to the eaves.

      But now the birds are flown or dead;

      And sky and earth are bleak and gray;

      The wild winds sob i' the boughs instead,

      The wild leaves sigh i' the way.

      The rainy smell of a ferny dell,

      Whose shadow no sunray flaws,

      When Autumn sits in the wayside weeds

      Telling her beads

      Of haws.

      The phantom mist, that is moonbeam-kissed,

      On hills where the trees are thinned,