None await thy smiling rays;

Whither comest thou, O Spring?

None are left to sing thy praise—

Vain thy coming now, O Spring!

All the world is wrapped in gloom,

Earth in blood is weltering:

This year brought us blackest doom—

Whither comest thou, O Spring?

No rose for the nightingale,

No flower within park or dale,

Every face with anguish pale—

Whither comest thou, O Spring?