Oh Dearest, canst thou tell me why
The Rose should be so pale ?
And why the azure Violet
Should wither in the vale ?
And why the Lark should, in the cloud,
So sorrowfully sing ?
And why from loveliest balsam-buds
A scent of death should spring ?
And why the Sun upon the mead
So chillingly should frown ?
And why the Earth should, like a grave,
Be mouldering and brown ?
And why is it that I, myself,
So languishing should be ?
And why is it, my Heart-of-Hearts,
That thou forsakest me ?