No more beneath the linden,
Or in a maple grove,
Or by the laughing streamlet
Where oft we used to rove,
Shall we ever, ever wander,
As we did in days of yore,
To listen to the music
Of the ripple on the shore.
No more the swaying rushes,
Or the waves of wind-swept grass
Shall whisper old romances
Unto us as they pass;
Nor the green, caressing fingers
Of the swaying wildwood tree,
Bend low to touch thy forehead
As if 't were blessing thee.
Thou 'rt still beside the streamlet
Where oft we used to sit,
And o'er the turf still lightly
As of old the shadows flit;
But now above thee bending
Waves not the linden bough,
But ah! the shivering willow
Is weeping o'er thee now.
