When, with low moanings on the distant shore, br    Like vain regrets, the ocean-tide is rolled: br    When, thro' bare boughs, the tale of death is told br By breezes sighing, "Summer days are o'er"; br When all the days we loved -- the days of yore -- br    Lie in their vaults, dead Kings who ruled of old -- br    Unrobed and sceptreless, uncrowned with gold, br Conquered, and to be crowned, ah! never more. br br If o'er the bare fields, cold and whitening br    With the first snow-flakes, I should see thy form, br And meet and kiss thee, that were enough of Spring; br    Enough of sunshine, could I feel the warm br Glad beating of thy heart 'neath Winter's wing, br    Tho' Earth were full of whirlwind and of storm.