HE clouds gather fast, the oak woods roar, The damsel paces the green of the shore; The billows are breaking with might, with might, And she pours forth her voice on the darksome night. Her soul with sorrow is moved:— "The heart is dead, and the world is drear, There is nothing remains to live for here; Take home thy little one, Holiest, now, I have tasted the sweetest of things below, For I have both lived and loved!"