A song of the setting sun!

The sky in the west is red,

And the day is all but done;

While yonder up overhead,

All too soon,

There rises so cold the cynic moon.

A song of a Winter day!

The wind of the north doth blow,

From a sky that’s chill and gray,

On fields where no crops now grow.

Fields long shorn

Of bearded barley and golden corn.

A song of a faded flower!

Twas plucked in the tender bud,

And fair and fresh for an hour,

In a Lady’s hair it stood,

Now, ah! now,

Faded it lies in the dust and low.