L'AUBE

Yea, it is dawn, alas!

Gray is the earth, and cold;

Swift was our night to pass.

Thy hair is like fine gold,

Over the pillows spread

And on the sheet's white fold

The light falls on thine head

And trembles in thine eyes

From which the dreams have fled.

But they keep memories;

Love burnt us up like grass:

Surely Love never dies!

Yea, it is dawn, alas!