I praised the myrtle and the rose, At sunrise in their beauty vying; I passed them at the short day's close, And both were dying. The summer sun his rays was throwing Brightly; yet ere I sought my rest, His last cold ray, more deeply glowing, Died in the west. After this bleak world's stormy weather, All, all, save Love alone, shall die; For Faith and Hope shall merge together In Charity. |