When the weary night is fled,
And the morning sky is red,
Then my heart doth rise and say,
`Surely she will come to-day.'
In the golden blaze of noon,
`Surely she is coming soon.'
In the twilight, `Will she come?'
Then my heart with fear is dumb.
When the night wind in the trees
Plays its mournful melodies,
Then I know my trust is vain,
And she will not come again.
