The Autumn wind wails thin, Like a sobbing violin, Long and low. How it thrills my heart with pain, This monotonous refrain, Sad and slow! Passion-pale I pant, "Alas!" For the chiming hours that pass To their sleep, Till the visions throng my head Of the good glad days long dead— And I weep. But the wind so wild and fleet Overbears my willing feet, And I go As the withered leaves that spin— When the winter gusts begin— To and fro. |