What weeping, or what dewfall,
Whose then were those tears,
Flung from night’s cloak, I saw,
And the white face of the stars?
Why was the white moon sowing
A pure cloud’s crystal mass
In the lap of fresh new grass?
Why were the winds heard, blowing,
Through the dark air, round and round,
Till dawn, with mournful sound?
Were they perhaps the strife
Of your going, life of my life?