⁠I took my heart to me;
And we together sadly sank
⁠Into a reverie.

We thought, 'When winter comes again,
⁠Where will these bright things be?
All vanished, like a vision vain,
⁠An unreal mockery!

'The birds that now so blithely sing,
⁠Through deserts, frozen dry,
Poor spectres of the perished spring,
⁠In famished troops will fly.

'And why should we be glad at all?
⁠The leaf is hardly green,
Before a token of its fall
⁠Is on the surface seen!'

Now, whether it were really so,
⁠I never could be sure;
But as in fit of peevish woe,
⁠I stretched me on the moor,

A thousand thousand gleaming fires
⁠Seemed kindling in the air;
A thousand thousand silvery lyres
⁠Resounded far and near: