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'Tis a light thought,
By coldness taught;
A foolish fancy—that betokeneth nought.
There's many an eye
Asks wond'ringly,
Where is their wonted gladness fled—and why?
Where is it gone,
Thou blessed one!
Flown o'er those hills—beyond those forests flown.
I scatter'd tares—
I gather'd cares,
And all the noisome weeds the fetid morass bears.
The earth whirls on:
I stand alone,
Stretch out my hand in-vain—and vainly grieve and groan.