The chestnut steed stood by the gate,
His noble master's will to wait;
The wooded park, so green and bright,
Was glowing in the morning light;
The young leaves of the aspen trees
Were dancing in the morning breeze.
The palace door was open wide,
The lord was standing there,
And his sweet lady by his side,
With soft, dark eyes, and raven hair.
He, smiling, took her ivory hand,
And said, 'No longer here I stand;
My charger shakes his flowing mane,
And calls me with impatient neigh.
Adieu, then, till we meet again:
Sweet love, I must no longer stay.'

'You must not go so soon,' she said,
'I will not say "farewell";
The sun has not dispelled the shade
In yonder dewy dell.

Dark shadows of gigantic length
Are sleeping on the lawn,
And scarcely have the birds begun
To hail the summer morn.
Then stay with me a little while,'
She said, with soft and sunny smile.

He smiled again, and did not speak,
But lightly kissed her rosy cheek,
And fondly clasped her in his arms;
Then vaulted on his steed,
And down the park's smooth, winding road,
He urged its flying speed.
Still by the door his lady stood
And watched his rapid flight
Until he reached a distant wood
That hid him from her sight.
But ere he vanished from her view
He waved to her a last 'Adieu!'
Then onward, hastily, he steered,
And in the forest disappeared.

The lady smiled a pensive smile,
And heaved a gentle sigh;
But her cheek was all unbleached the while,
And tearless was her eye.

'A thousand lovely flowers,' she said,
'Are smiling on the plain,
And, ere one half of them are dead,
My lord will come again.
The leaves are waving fresh and green
On every stately tree,
And, long before they die away,
He will return to me!'
Alas! fair lady, say not so:
Thou canst not tell the weight of woe
That lies in store for thee!

Those flowers will fade, those leaves will fall,
Winter will darken yonder hall,
Sweet spring will smile o'er hill and plain,
And trees and flowers will bloom again,
And years will still keep rolling on;
But thy belovèd lord is gone!
His absence thou shalt deeply mourn,
And never smile on his return.

The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks 
And far beyond the discords of the wind.

A bronze rain from the sun descending marks
The death of summer, which that time endures

Like one who scrawls a listless testament
Of golden quirks and Paphian caricatures,

Bequeathing your white feathers to the moon
And giving your bland motions to the air.

Behold, already on the long parades
The crows anoint the statues with their dirt.

And the soul, O ganders, being lonely, flies
Beyond your chilly chariots, to the skies.