TEARS.
HE night wind sobs through the cypress That bends to my window near,And the drops of night are falling Like tears on a mourner's bier.Patters the rain on the window, Fitful gusts shiver the pane,Now sink to sleep in the larches, Now startle the silence again.
Then follows day, dark and dreary, Behind the low leaden cloud,The sun entombed in his glory Is palled with a burial shroud.
And the orange trees are broken With the rain of yesternight,And the blossoms even bend their heads, To hide their dismal plight.
