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A song of the setting sun! The sky in the west is red, And the day is all but done; While yonder up overhead, All too soon, There rises so cold the cynic moon. A Song of a Winter day! The wind of the north doth blow, From a sky that's chill and gray, On fields where no crops now grow, Fields long shorn Of bearded barley and golden corn. A song of a faded flower! 'Twas plucked in the tender bud, And fair and fresh for an hour, In a Lady's hair it stood, Now, ah! now, Faded it lies in the dust and low.
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