The Faun piped in the coppice, 
He piped a plaintive strain; 
I called on him to stop his
"Sweet Summer, come again!" 
Said he, "I pine for posies,
For June in wood and wold; 
The nymphs have got red noses 
And all the world’s a-cold!"

"Come, ring a ring of roses," 
Quoth I, "my bonnie lad;
Though nymphs have got red noses 
There’s balm in Gilead;
Though frosty breezes rack us 
Through forests all forlorn,
I know a nook where Bacchus
Fills high the jolly horn.

"Come, though the rude North bellows, 
I know a rosy inn
Where certain sound good fellows 
Sip sunshine from the bin,
True knights of malt and vine, Faun, 
Who'll reck not of attire
In any friend of mine, Faun, 
About the tap-room fire."

He came, he drained the rummer 
Of friendship and accord; 
He swore 'twas always summer 
When Bacchus is the lord; 
And, ring a ring of roses, 
He didn’t care a jot 
If nymphs had got red noses 
Or whether they had not.

Silently without my window,
Tapping gently at the pane,
Falls the rain.
Through the trees sighs the breeze
Like a soul in pain.
Here alone I sit and weep;
Thought hath banished sleep.

Wearily I sit and listen
To the water's ceaseless drip.
To my lip
Fate turns up the bitter cup,
Forcing me to sip;
'Tis a bitter, bitter drink,
Thus I sit and think, —

Thinking things unknown and awful,
Thoughts on wild, uncanny themes,
Waking dreams.
Spectres dark, corpses stark,
Show the gaping seams
Whence the cold and cruel knife
Stole away their life.

Bloodshot eyes all strained and staring,
Gazing ghastly into mine;
Blood like wine
On the brow — clotted now—
Shows death's dreadful sign.
Lonely vigil still I keep;
Would that I might sleep!

Still, oh, still, my brain is whirling!
Still runs on my stream of thought;
I am caught
In the net fate hath set.
Mind and soul are brought
To destruction's very brink;
Yet I can but think!

Eyes that look into the future,—
Peeping forth from out my mind,
They will find
Some new weight, soon or late,
On my soul to bind,
Crushing all its courage out,—
Heavier than doubt.

Dawn, the Eastern monarch's daughter,
Rising from her dewy bed,
Lays her head
'Gainst the clouds' sombre shrouds
Now half fringed with red.
O'er the land she 'gins to peep;
Come, O gentle Sleep!

Hark! the morning cock is crowing;
Dreams, like ghosts, must hie away;
'Tis the day.
Rosy morn now is born;
Dark thoughts may not stay.
Day my brain from foes will keep;
Now, my soul, I sleep.