Tears.
71
The rain down trickles from the tiles,
And the swallow folds her head
On her breast, nor a sound of happy life,
With this new day is wed.
And the swallow folds her head
On her breast, nor a sound of happy life,
With this new day is wed.
The room fades darker, lonelier too,
E'en the portraits seem to frown;
Or is it that I am weary
Of life and its mockeries grown?
E'en the portraits seem to frown;
Or is it that I am weary
Of life and its mockeries grown?
