The waters closed above her face
With many a ring.

And still I staid a little more,
Alas! she never comes again!
I throw my flowers from the shore,
And watch in vain.

I know my life will fade away,
I know that I must vainly pine,
For I am made of mortal clay,
But she's divine!




AUTUMN.


The Autumn is old,
The sere leaves are flying;--
He hath gather'd up gold,
And now he is dying;--
Old Age, begin sighing!

The vintage is ripe,
The harvest is heaping;--
But some that have sow'd
Have no riches for reaping;--
Poor wretch, fall a-weeping!