I praised the myrtle and the rose,
At sunrise in their beauty vying;
I passed them at the short day's close,
And both were dying.

The summer sun his rays was throwing
Brightly; yet ere I sought my rest,
His last cold ray, more deeply glowing,
Died in the west.

After this bleak world's stormy weather,
All, all, save Love alone, shall die;
For Faith and Hope shall merge together