On Melancholy

In ancient times, her self was but a breeze,

Blowing softly on fields of vivid green,

The rustling leaves would dance and twirl and fade,

While in the woods I wandered by her shade.

The moon would pour herself as in a stream,

Casting many a shadow with her gleam.

Eternity was hers within that glade,

While in the woods I wandered by her shade.

While in the woods I wandered by her shade,

Myself I found outcast from my old state,

I bade adieu and softly embraced my fate,

While in the woods I wandered by her shade.