Mournfully doth Joy's eclipse,
Shroud in grief Love's sweetest sign;
Cold the pressure of thy lips,
Cold the hand that rests in mine.

Once the slightest stolen kiss—
O, what rapture did it bring!
Like a violet's loveliness,
Found and plucked in early spring.

Now, no more my hand shall twine,
Rose wreaths, sweetest love, for thee;
Without, is summer's glorious prime,
Within, weird autumn's misery.