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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit
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I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart,
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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief. . . .
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The stormy March has come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast, That through the snowy valley flies.
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