Ecstasy and sweetness have long deceased:
Spring comes at last, calling forth film-eyed aching
From my dungeoned heart, where Passion doth sing
A vain serenade ’neath thy window latticed.
Ah, in darkness, no Hope’s orient dawn
Flickers. The rose petals, withered and sere,
Have fallen into the Stygian River;
The beetle and the death-moth e’er haunt on
The grave of Love, a spectral corse in shrouds.
Thine eyes have dimmed, like yesternight’s starlight;
Mine heart, ’tis sadder by far than the moon,
When, sick to doomsday, in her lunar swoon;
Our past, a fading ray of celestial light,
’Twill be hid in oblivion of dusky clouds.