There's music wafting on the air, The evening winds are sighing Among the trees and yonder stream Is mournfully replying, Lamenting loud the sunny light That in the west is dying. ...
With sweet Regret'(the dearest thing that Yesterday has left us)' We often turn our homeless eyes to scenes whence Fate has reft us. Here sitting by a fading flame, wild waifs of song remind me...
He crouches, and buries his face on his knees, And hides in the dark of his hair; For he cannot look up to the storm-smitten trees, Or think of the loneliness there Of the loss and the loneliness there....
Sad faces came round, and I dreamily said 'Though the harp of my country now slumbers, Some hand will pass o'er it, in love for the dead, And attune it to sorrowful numbers!'...