Chapter XVI

'Though in the garden, gray with dew,
All life lies withering,
And there's no more to say or do,
No more to sigh or sing,
Yet go we back the ways we knew,
When buds were opening.

Perhaps we shall not search in vain
Within its wreck and gloom;
'Mid roses ruined of the rain
There still may live one bloom;
One flower, whose heart may still retain
The long-lost soul-perfume.

And then, perhaps, will come to us
The dreams we dreamed before;
And song, who spoke so beauteous,
Will speak to us once more;
And love, with eyes all amorous,
Will ope again his door.

So 'though the garden's gray with dew,
And flowers are withering,
And there's no more to say or do,
No more to sigh or sing,
Yet go we back the ways we knew
When buds were opening.