FADED LEAVES

Still glides the stream, slow drops the boat

Under the rustling poplars’ shade;

Silent the swans beside us float —

None speaks, none heeds; ah, turn thy head!

Let those arch eyes now softly shine,

That mocking mouth grow sweetly bland;

Ah, let them rest, those eyes, on mine!

On mine let rest that lovely hand!

My pent-up tears oppress my brain,

My heart is swoln with love unsaid.

Ah, let me weep, and tell my pain,

And on thy shoulder rest my head!

Before I die — before the soul,

Which now is mine, must re-attain

Immunity from my control,

And wander round the world again;

Before this teased o'erlabour' d heart

For ever leaves its vain employ,

Dead to its deep habitual smart,

And dead to hopes of future joy.