The Stormy Day
A branch of dead leaves plashes the pane.
It is tossed and swayed by the wind and the rain.
A fair young woman with folded hands
And tearful eyes at a window stands.
Within the light is tender and warm.
Without is the dark and surging storm.
The dead leaves plash the dripping pane,
And she murmurs over and over again.
“Ah, God, to think that my love lies dead
And the pitiless storm beats over his head.”
The dark day dies in storm and rain,
And the dead leaves plash the window-pane.
It is tossed and swayed by the wind and the rain.
A fair young woman with folded hands
And tearful eyes at a window stands.
Within the light is tender and warm.
Without is the dark and surging storm.
The dead leaves plash the dripping pane,
And she murmurs over and over again.
“Ah, God, to think that my love lies dead
And the pitiless storm beats over his head.”
The dark day dies in storm and rain,
And the dead leaves plash the window-pane.
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