The Evergreen's Moan

I THOUGHT, in early spring, how fair'Twould be to bloom for ever—To wear my gallant Lincoln greenUntouched by time or weather.

I saw the maples' golden gownAbout her cold feet lying,

The oak tree's dark and tattered cloakOff on the wild wind flying.

The crimson knots fell one by oneOff from the rose tree's shoulder,And so untied its robe of greenEre autumn nights grew colder.

The ripened grain waved me adieu;The bird stopped, southward going,Then went his way. I watch alone,The north wind coldly blowing.

I would that I too with the restHad been content to slumber;The robe of life I covetedNow clothes me but to cumber.

There would have then been some regrets,Some whisper softly sighing,When loit'ring lovers homeward wentThrough leaves about me dying.

And this is why to wintry windsI tell my thrice-told story:Life, lonely life, when friends have gone,Is but a doubtful glory.