LOUDLY sweep the winds of autumn

O'er that lone, beloved grave,

Where we laid those sunny ringlets,

When those blue eyes set like stars,

Leaving us to outer darkness.

O the longing and the aching!

O the sere deserted grave!

Let the grass turn brown upon thee,

Brown and withered like our dreams!

Let the wind moan through the pine-trees

With a dreary, dirge-like whistle,

Sweep the dead leaves on its bosom,--

Moaning, sobbing through the branches,

Where the summer laughed so gayly.

He is gone, our boy of summer,--

Gone the light of his blue eyes,

Gone the tender heart and manly,

Gone the dreams and the aspirings,--

Nothing but the mound remaineth,

And the aching in our bosoms,

Ever aching, ever throbbing:

Who shall bring it unto rest?