Page:Troubadour.pdf/289

Rh

Trees from which the leaves are fled, Flowers whose very roots are dead, Grass of its green blade bereft, These are all that now are left. —Linger here another day, I shall be as sad as they; My companions fly with spring, I too must be on the wing.

Where are the sweet gales whose song Wont to waft my darts along? Scented airs! oh, not like these, Rough as they which sweep the seas; But those sighs of rose which bring Incense from their wandering. Where are the bright flowers that kept Guard around me while I slept?