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?