Stanzas of Sorrow

Methinks there is a fearful blight,
Gone forth o'er all the things that be,
And darken'd seems the noon-day light,
And strangely still the restless sea.

The summer sun has lost its heat,
The sky has lost its lovely blue,
The roses smell no longer sweet,
And rayless seems the glittering dew.

The sky-lark's strain no more is gay,
But seems the trembling tone of woe;
The languid sheep no longer play,
The streams no longer seem to flow.

Whence spreads this awful change around,
Which thus with fearful eye I see?
But is the change by others found?
No—nought on earth is chang'd—but me.

For there's a blight within my heart,
That's thence transferr'd to nature's face;
When shall this painful blight depart,
And nature wear its wonted grace?

When ardent love is chill'd and cold,
And dead as all the hopes it gave—
But when shall I that day behold
When I shall fill my peaceful grave?