The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival With a biographical sketch |
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[The winds of the winter are over] |
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 | The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival |  |
[The winds of the winter are over]
The winds of the winter are over,
The flowers and the green leaves return;
The meadow is mantled in clover,
The hillock is scented with fern;
The blue-birds are flitting and singing
Their love-notes in thicket and tree,
But the flowers and the sweet birds are bringing
No spring and no beauty to me.
The flowers and the green leaves return;
The meadow is mantled in clover,
The hillock is scented with fern;
The blue-birds are flitting and singing
Their love-notes in thicket and tree,
But the flowers and the sweet birds are bringing
No spring and no beauty to me.
My hopes have departed for ever,
My vision of true love is o'er,
My heart shall awaken—ah! never,
There 's a spring to my bosom no more;
The roses that crowned me are blighted,
The garland I cherished is dead;
The faith we had promised and plighted
Is broken,—my lover has fled.
My vision of true love is o'er,
My heart shall awaken—ah! never,
There 's a spring to my bosom no more;
The roses that crowned me are blighted,
The garland I cherished is dead;
The faith we had promised and plighted
Is broken,—my lover has fled.
They saw that my life was decaying,
For my cheek lost its bloom, and grew pale;
They saw that my spirit was straying,
But I told not a word of my tale;
Not a whisper revealed my deceiver,
Not an ear heard me sigh or complain,
For my heart still adored its bereaver,
And I hoped I should meet him again.
For my cheek lost its bloom, and grew pale;
They saw that my spirit was straying,
But I told not a word of my tale;
Not a whisper revealed my deceiver,
Not an ear heard me sigh or complain,
For my heart still adored its bereaver,
And I hoped I should meet him again.
He came,—but another had rifled
The troth he had plighted to me;
I looked on, and my agony stifled,
Though it burned like the sting of a bee.
O, the sun is now sinking in billows
That roll, o'er the hills, in the west;
But morning will shine through the willows,
And find me for ever at rest.
The troth he had plighted to me;
I looked on, and my agony stifled,
Though it burned like the sting of a bee.
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That roll, o'er the hills, in the west;
But morning will shine through the willows,
And find me for ever at rest.
| The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival | |