6
Through thee, the morn, whose cloudless rays
Woke him to joy in other days,
Now, in the light of beauty drest,
Brings but new sorrows to his breast.
Through thee, the heavens are dark to him,
The sun's meridian blaze is dim;
And harsh were e'en the bird of eve,
But that her song still loves to grieve.
All it hath been, his heart forgets,
So altered by its long regrets;
Each wish is changed, each hope is o'er,
And joy's light spirit wakes no more.
