Beside my window sighs the last lone rose,
Saying, ‘Alas! farewell! Youth's all but dead.’
Like some sweet spirit waiting for the close,
Her perfume hovers round her drooping head.
There sings a bird the yellow leaves among,
Saying, ‘Good-bye! The world is fair to roam.
Here Winter comes; the last glad song is sung.
Art thou content to linger still at home?’
Beside my chair one came in hot unrest,
Crying, ‘Farewell! The waters call for me,
Out on the waves—thou knowest no life so blest,’
—And I was born beside a troubled sea.
One came to sigh, and whisper of the heights,
Saying ‘Good-bye! For in my heart there trills
A hunter's joys, to thee unknown delights,’
—And I did play upon the purple hills.
Blown to my window see the white rose break,
And falling cry, ‘Too late, my hours are told.’
Still trills the bird, ‘How wide the world to seek.’
Ah, God! Ah, God! And I am growing old.