A song of the setting sun!

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.