Yes! I must die! my spring has fled
Long ere its time, and winter's frost
Withers me with its icy breath,
And warns me that all hope is lost
Laid low by unrelenting death,
Sweet flowers and herbs my corse shall deck,
But ah! my sad and frustrate life
Fruitage of deeds must ever lack.
Descend, ye leaves ephemeral,
And cover me as I am dying,
Let not my mother's vision fall
Where breathless, motionless, I'm lying:
But if my love comes hither, when
Fate can inflict no further sorrow,
To weep my hapless lot—oh! then
Some comfort shall my spirit borrow.
No more he said, but thence departed,
His wanderings there for ever o'er.
When from the tree the last leaf started
Destiny tortured him no more.
Beneath an oak his corse was laid;
But she whom he had loved so dearly
Came not the silence to invade
Which reigned about his grave austerely;
Save when the shepherd went his round
The solitude was void of sound.
1895
96
