Turn not now for comfort here
The lamps are quenched the guests are gone
Cold and lonely, dim an[d] drear
Void are now those halls of stone

Sadly sighing Anvale woods
Whisper peace to my decay
Fir-tree over pine-tree broods
Dark & high and piled away

Gone are all who saw my glory
Fill on festal nights the trees
Distant lit now silver hoary
Bowed they to the freshening breeze

They are dead who heard at night
Woods and winds and waters sound
Where my casements cast their light
Red upon the snow-piled ground

Some from afar in foreing regions
Some from drear suffering—wild unrest
All light on land and winged legions
Fill the old woods and parent nest