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LO! the time of spring is over; from his haunts the bulbul flees;

None the less the rosebush stretches longing hands to catch the breeze.

Breeze of morning, that in olden times from far Egyptian skies

Brought the scent of Joseph’s raiment, brought the light to Jacob’s eyes.

Here no Jacob waits thy healing advent, but the rose forlorn

Mourns the absence of the bulbul, mourns her petals soiled and torn.

Loud resound the songs of wassail and the mourner’s dirge is still;

I alone of all the band remain to wail and weep my fill.

All my treasures have been rifled, all by robbers borne away,

Yet, my eye upon the lattice, still within the house I stay.

All alone I sit and all in darkness in the lonesome night,

Though the flambeaux of my songs have filled the universe with light.