Gracious youth of mine, so quickly
Hath it come to this?
Lo, where flowed the golden river,
Yawns the black abyss!
Where, oh where is my beloved,
Where the wreath of flowers?
Where, oh where the merry fiddler,
Where those happy hours?
Shall I never hear the echoes
Of those songs again?
Oh, on what hills are they ringing,
O'er what sunny plain?
May not I from out the distance
Cast one backward glance
On that fair and lost existence,
Youth's sweet dalliance?
Foolish dreamer! Time hath snatched it,
And, tho' man implore,
Joys that _he_ hath reaped and garnered
Bloom again no more!




In The Wilderness


Alone in desert dreary,
A bird with folded wings
Beholds the waste about her,