Now spring returns; but not to me returns
The vernal joy my bitter years have known;
Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,
And all the joys of life with health are flown.
Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was,
Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclin'd,
And count the silent moments as they pass:
The winged moments, whose unstaying speed
No art can stop, or in their course arrest;
Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,
And lay me down in peace with them that rest.
Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate;
And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true.
Sped by pale ghosts I enter death's dark gate,
And bid the realms of light and life adieu!
I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe;
I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore,