When in the early dawn I hear the thrushes,
And like a flood of waters o’er my heart
The memory of another summer rushes,
How can I rise up, and perform my part?

When in the languid eve I hear the wailing
Of the uncomforted sad mourning dove,
Whose grief, like mine, seems deep as unavailing,
What will I do with all this wealth of love?

When the sweet rain falls over hills and meadows,
And the tall poplar’s silver leaves are wet,
And, like my soul, the world seems draped in shadow,
How shall I hush this passionate regret?

When the wild bee is wooing the red clover,
And the fair rose smiles on the butterfly,
Missing thy smile and kiss, O love, my lover,
Who on God’s earth so desolate as I?

My tortured senses new despair will borrow
From those reminders of a vanished day,
That was as full of joy as this of sorrow—
O beautiful, sad summer keep away!