10.08.2014, 12:33
THE WATCHER
LOW hang the clouds, the clouds hang gray and low ;
Upon the far hills falls the thin, cold rain;
The stream moans through the fields as one in pain.
And madcap winds awake and wildly blow
The torn and ragged vapors to and fro
About the ruined garden, where in vain
One desolate bird, again and yet again,
Lifts up its single piercing note of woe.
Pour after hour, from youder shivering wold,
The drenched leaves o'er the sodden meadows fly,
Till solemnly the darkness, fold on fold,
Curtains the troubled world from every eye ;
But ah! I still bend o'er her locks of gold,
And count each thread-like pulse, each fluttering sigh.
LOW hang the clouds, the clouds hang gray and low ;
Upon the far hills falls the thin, cold rain;
The stream moans through the fields as one in pain.
And madcap winds awake and wildly blow
The torn and ragged vapors to and fro
About the ruined garden, where in vain
One desolate bird, again and yet again,
Lifts up its single piercing note of woe.
Pour after hour, from youder shivering wold,
The drenched leaves o'er the sodden meadows fly,
Till solemnly the darkness, fold on fold,
Curtains the troubled world from every eye ;
But ah! I still bend o'er her locks of gold,
And count each thread-like pulse, each fluttering sigh.