 | Songs of A Wayfarer |  |
LIX.
[Down the desolate street and silent]
Down the desolate street and silent
I creep to the rusty door
Which my love in the balmy twilights
Will open, ah, nevermore.
I creep to the rusty door
Which my love in the balmy twilights
Will open, ah, nevermore.
I look through the grimy window
Into her little room
Where she, or her lamps bright shining,
Will nevermore star the gloom.
Into her little room
Where she, or her lamps bright shining,
Will nevermore star the gloom.
The books are faded; the carpet
Is fusty and dusty and grim;
The table, the chairs and the mirror
Are mouldy and smutty and dim.
Is fusty and dusty and grim;
The table, the chairs and the mirror
Are mouldy and smutty and dim.
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What visions of youth's sweet season
Revolve in my mazy head,
As I turn from the dreary picture
To her cherished garden-bed!
Revolve in my mazy head,
As I turn from the dreary picture
To her cherished garden-bed!
It was here, one springtide morning,
When the honey-bee buzzed in the limes,
She gave me a rose from that briar,
And I kissed it a thousand times.
When the honey-bee buzzed in the limes,
She gave me a rose from that briar,
And I kissed it a thousand times.
Now, blanched and withered and blasted,
The petals are scattered around:
Faded and mouldering, the loved one
Lies dead in the cold, cold ground.
The petals are scattered around:
Faded and mouldering, the loved one
Lies dead in the cold, cold ground.
| Songs of A Wayfarer | |