And your jewelled gauds surrender
Half their glories to the day;
Freely did they flash their splendor,
Freely gave it—but it dies away.
In the pines, the thrush is waking;
Lo, yon orient hill in flames!
Scores of true-love-knots are breaking
At divorce which it proclaims.
When the lamps are paled at morning,
Heart quits heart, and hand quits hand.
Cold in that unlovely dawning,
Loveless, rayless, joyless, you shall stand!
Pluck no more red roses, maidens,
Leave the lilies in their dew;
Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens,
Dusk, oh, dusk the hall with yew!
—Shall I seek, that I may scorn her,
Her I loved at eventide?
Shall I ask, what faded mourner
Stands, at daybreak, weeping by my side?...
Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens!
Dusk the hall with yew!
THE VOICE.
As the kindling glances,
Queen-like and clear,
Which the bright moon lances
From her tranquil sphere
At the sleepless waters
Of a lonely mere,
On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully,
