Aubade

David Park Barnitz

The lady awoke before the cold gray dawn,
And had no joy thereof;
—What joy is mine of all the joy of love,
When love is gone?

Lo, all the air is strange unto mine eyes,
Lo, all the stars are dead;
Only the moon appeareth overhead
As one that dies.

Lo, all the garden lieth desolate,
And very strange to see,
Wherein, the roses and the grass for me
Blossom'd of late.

O rose-garden wherein my roses grew,
O odorous dim ways,
Why are ye strange to me as perish'd days,
And cold with dew?

Through the wide window creeps the cold sweet air,
Faint with sweet rose-perfume,
It stealeth o'er my body in the gloom,
And o'er my hair.

Surely I have drunk full of love's delight,
But now my lips are cold,
While the pale day in silence doth behold
The dying night.