All, all have past and fled, And left me lorn and lonely; All those dear hopes are dead, Remembrance wakes them only I I stand like some lone tower Of former days remaining, Within whose place of power The midnight owl is plaining; — Like oak-tree old and gray, Whose trunk with age is failing, Thro’ whose dark boughs for aye The winter winds are wailing. Thus, Memory, thus thy light O’er this worn soul is gleaming, Like some far fire at night Along the dun deep streaming.
