With waning hopes I did stand,Beside the green children of the earth,
The night with desolation closely knit,
Reminded me of that melancholy song.
The same song, that once I heard,
In my dubiety, or in my despair,
Which bade of desires, ruthlessly rude,
And of dreams, so treacherously wild.
Mundane things no longer allure me,
Neither the deceptive will-o-the-wisp,
And scarcely does a lass of charm,
Drives me onto great fascination.
Yet, when I would be in my grave,
No man or woman would ever weep,
Spring would bring them bountiful pleasure,
And autumn, some annoying remorse.
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