While hollow burst the rushing winds,
And heavy beats the show'r,
This anxious, aching bosom finds
No comfort in its pow'r. No, no.
For ah, my love, it little knows
What thy hard fate may be,
What bitter storm of fortune blows,
What tempests trouble thee.
A wayward fate hath spun the thread
On which our days depend,
And darkling in the checker'd shade,
She draws it to an end.
But whatsoe'er may be our doom,
The lot is cast for me,
For in the world or in the tomb,
My heart is fix'd on thee.