The leaves are shivering on the thorn, Drearily; And sighing wakes the lean-eyed morn, Wearily.
I press my thin face to the pane, Drearily; But never will he come again. ( Wearily. )
The rain hath sicklied day with haze, Drearily; My tears run downward as I gaze, Wearily.
The mist and morn spake unto me, Drearily: “What is this thing God gives to thee?” ( Wearily. )
I said unto the morn and mist, Drearily: “The babe unborn whom sin hath kissed.” ( Wearily. )
The morn and mist spake unto me, Drearily: “What is this thing which thou dost see?” ( Wearily. )
I said unto the mist and morn, Drearily: “The shame of man and woman's scorn.” ( Wearily. )
“He loved thee not,” they made reply. Drearily. I said, “Would God had let me die!” ( Wearily. )
My dreams are as a closed up book, ( Drearily. ) Upon whose clasp of love I look, Wearily.
All night the rain raved overhead, Drearily; All night I wept awake in bed, Wearily.
I heard the wind sweep wild and wide, Drearily; I turned upon my face and sighed, Wearily.
The wind and rain spake unto me, Drearily: “What is this thing God takes from thee?” ( Wearily. )
I said unto the rain and wind, Drearily: “The love, for which my soul hath sinned.” ( Wearily. )
The rain and wind spake unto me, Drearily: “What are these things thou still dost see?” ( Wearily. )
I said unto the wind and rain, Drearily: “Regret, and hope despair hath slain.” ( Wearily. )
“Thou lov'st him still,” they made reply, Drearily. I said, “That God would let me die!” ( Wearily. )
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