With weary steps I loiter on,
      Tho' always under alter'd skies
      The purple from the distance dies,
My prospect and horizon gone.

No joy the blowing season gives,
      The herald melodies of spring,
      But in the songs I love to sing
A doubtful gleam of solace lives.

If any care for what is here
      Survive in spirits render'd free,
      Then are these songs I sing of thee
Not all ungrateful to thine ear.

Last modified 12 February 2010