He gave me his promise of changeless truth,
(Down in the wood where the ivy clings);
And the air breathed rapture, and love, and youth,
(And yon tree was in bud where the throstle sings).
He said he was going across the sea,
(Far from the wood where the ivy clings),
And would bring back riches and jewels for me
(But brown leaves shake where the throstle sings).
Hope made life like a summer morn;
(Sweet was the wood where the ivy clings);
Now my heart is cold, and withered, and worn,
(And the bough is bare where the throstle sings).
Days are dreary, and life is long;
(Yet down in the wood the ivy clings),
And the winds they moan a desolate song,
(And there's snow on the bough where no throstle sings).
Spring will come with its buds and leaves
(Back to the wood where the ivy clings);
But 'tis winter cold for the heart that grieves,
(And I hear not the song that the throstle sings).