How lonely a view,
does such a pale morning bring,
that such shapes of nought,
came to the fro,
that all that's lost,
and no amount of night,
no amount of dreaming,
shall bring back the view,
that just one yesterday's long was mine,
and me thought mine for ever long as I was here,
never would I thought those whispers would cease,
never would I thought the wind would go bare,
to rush and roam,
with no companion to dance along side,
where are the winter twigs that would sway and foam,
like so many bubbles glittering under the ocean's view at noontide?
Where is that pearly mist that so oft greeted me,
reminded me of home?
Tell me, where now shall I let my eyes to roam?
Where none now is hidden, no mystery to solve?
What a barren view, a lack lustre hearth,
and for what?
Such a wonton death doesn't suit the majesty of those that danced beside the wind.
Cut like empty logs. Hollow. Devoid of meaning.
But their whispers danced me to sleep and the sounds of their comrades, the wakeful robin roused the morning.
How now shall I wake, but to the distant mourning?
That one of silence.
No rustle will be heard to now,
no helpful bird calling,
I'm all awake now,
all sour with this barren view,
such a ponderous sight now,
all heavy with nothing,
all heavy with what was once there,
with what was once here,
but now I wake,
and the horrid forms of night,
that only just but intimated such a thought,
have shapened into nought.
I am alone now.
No more waving from my greenest of trees.
No more breathing in their calls of sweeting.
I am alone, with such a lonely view,
one stout captain, with no such crew.