When, with low moanings on the distant shore, 
   Like vain regrets, the ocean-tide is rolled: 
   When, thro' bare boughs, the tale of death is told 
By breezes sighing, "Summer days are o'er"; 
When all the days we loved -- the days of yore -- 
   Lie in their vaults, dead Kings who ruled of old -- 
   Unrobed and sceptreless, uncrowned with gold, 
Conquered, and to be crowned, ah! never more. 

If o'er the bare fields, cold and whitening 
   With the first snow-flakes, I should see thy form, 
And meet and kiss thee, that were enough of Spring; 
   Enough of sunshine, could I feel the warm 
Glad beating of thy heart 'neath Winter's wing, 
   Tho' Earth were full of whirlwind and of storm.