The fields are wet and dreary;
The rude storm takes the flowers of May,
And nature seemeth weary.
The partridge coveys shunning fate,
Hide in the bleaching stubble;
And many a bird without its mate,
Mourns o'er its lonely trouble.
On awthorns shine the crimson awe,
Where spring brought may-day blossoms;
Decay is natures cheerless law,
Life's winter in our bosoms.
The fields are brown and naked all,
But hedges still are green:
But storms shall come at autumns fall,
And not a leaf be seen!
Yet happy love that warms the heart,
Through darkest storms severe;
Keeps many a tender flower to start,—
When spring shall reappear,
Affections hope shall roseys meet;
Like those of summer bloom:—
And joys, and flowers, smell as sweet,
In seasons yet to come.