When the weary night is fled, br And the morning sky is red, br Then my heart doth rise and say, br `Surely she will come to-day.' br br In the golden blaze of noon, br `Surely she is coming soon.' br In the twilight, `Will she come?' br Then my heart with fear is dumb. br br When the night wind in the trees br Plays its mournful melodies, br Then I know my trust is vain, br And she will not come again.