But now thou only work’St my grief, 
By waking thoughts of pleasures fled 
Give me—give me the wither’d leaf, 
That falls on Autumn’s bosom dead. 
For that ne’er tells of what has been, 
But warns me what I soon shall be ; 
It looks not back on pleasure’s scene. 
But points unto futurity. 
I love thee not, thou simple flower, 
For thou art gay, and I am lone ; 
Thy beauty died with childhood’s hour— 
The Heart’s-ease from my path is gone. 
