Sad, sad, sad—
In vain thou comest, Spring;
Sad, sad, sad—
In vain thy birds all sing:
Perfumeless is thy rose;
Thy breeze, which softly blows,
Disturbs my sea of woes,
Ay, Death is on the wing.
Gone, gone, gone—
Go seek her, mocking Spring;
Gone, gone, gone—
Aside thy garlands fling;
Destroy thy laughing bower;
Call back an April shower
To weep with me this hour:
He came, not reckoning.
Love, love, love—
What sendest thou with Spring?
Love, love, love—
What tidings these birds bring!
They tell me they can hear
Thee, in a higher sphere;
But can that dry a tear,
Or give my wish a wing?