THE sere woods are quailing In the wind of their sorrow, Their keen they might borrow From the voice of my wailing. My bed's the cold stone By the dark-flowing river: Ochone-a-rie! Ochone! Thou art gone, and for ever! Ah! why didst thou love me But to leave me despairing, My anguish out-staring The bleak heavens above me? I lie all alone Where hope's morning comes never: Ochone-a-rie! Ochone! I have lost thee for ever! The dumb grave mocks my raving. From the dead comes no token, Where thy good sword lies broken. Thou art cold to my craving. We may lie down and moan, But our champion wakes never: Ochone-a-rie! Ochone! We are fallen for ever. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LET THE LIGHT ENTER (THE DYING WORDS OF GOETHE) by FRANCES ELLEN WATKINS HARPER SONNET: ADDRESSED TO HAYDON (2) by JOHN KEATS THE CUMBERLAND [MARCH 8, 1862] by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 74 by PHILIP SIDNEY A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NYMPH GOING TO BED by JONATHAN SWIFT MY PRAYER FOR TODAY by MAUD AKERS TO A MAID OF THIRTEEN by CHRISTOPHER BANNISTER |