Haply thou ask'st how many sighs I’ve yielded;

Count, prithee, thy red garden-roses. My day  

Of glory died yesterday: where summer gilded

The fountain and shrine, where the morning ray

Caught long aureate tresses of the faёry

Fresh from her sylvan grot, now, endlessly wave

The reed and thistle, and reёchoes the crow’s cry!

Seest thou not, my friend, everything, save

The sun, is set! —            

No maiden carrying a Gothic cage in hand

Dances in mazes thro’ the woods, to let

A dove go winging to greet the radiant flow'ry land.

But, I shall stay for a while my sorrow,

And see what will bring the morrow.