Ashen and old is the wrinkled earth,
Old and gray the sky;
The last pale flame of the fire shoots up . . . . .
The wine is bitter in the cup,
The roses, shriveled, — dry, —
Bitter and strained is our mirth . . . .
Blackened and ash-strewn, the hearth gapes cold,
Shadows haunt the hall.
The wind alternately mutters and sighs.
The candle-flame flickers — dies . . . .
You vowed it, I recall,
“Never shall our love grow old!”