Nay, hearts are aching, eyes are wet
    The more that they so richly glow,
Since in the past some glory set,
    To leave them in the dark of woe.

To leave them dark, and such a tinge
    O’er every aftersunset throw,
That it should only seem to fringe
    The pall of a dead long ago.

Ah well-a-day! But so it is,
    Pale sorrow groaneth everywhere,
And pain and loss we cannot miss;
    To think is almost to despair.