For works with similar titles, see 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.
TEARS.
HE night wind sobs through the cypressThat 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.
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.
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.
With the rain of yesternight,
And the blossoms even bend their heads,
To hide their dismal plight.
The rain down trickles from the tiles,
And the swallow folds her head
On her breast, nor a sound of happy life,
With this new day is wed.
And the swallow folds her head
On her breast, nor a sound of happy life,
With this new day is wed.
The room fades darker, lonelier too,
E'en the portraits seem to frown;
Or is it that I am weary
Of life and its mockeries grown?
E'en the portraits seem to frown;
Or is it that I am weary
Of life and its mockeries grown?