I sit on the Isle of Rousseau,
And the lights and shadows fall
On the same old stately statue,
On the same old gray-grown wall.

The dead leaves patter around me,
But never a sail goes by,
And the troubled lake lies sobbing
Beneath a frowning sky.

The mists hang low on the mountains;
The bloom of the vales is sped.
Alas, for the days so far away!
Alas, for the dear ones dead!

The north wind wails in the poplars;
The waves below make moan.
I can but weep, for the tryst I keep,
In the stranger's land, alone.