Dark, Dismal Day - The First Of Many Such! The Wind Is Sighing Through The Plaintive Trees, In Fitful Gusts Of A Half-Frenzied Woe; Affrighted Clouds The Hand Might Almost Touch, Their Black Wings Bend So Mournfully And Low, Sweep Through The Skies Like Night-Winds O'Er The Seas. There Is No Chirp Of Bird Through All The Grove, Save That Of The Young Fledgeling Rudely Flung From Its Warm Nest; And Like The Clouds Above My Soul Is Dark, And Restless As The Breeze That Leaps And Dances Over Couchiching. Soon Will The Last Duett Be Sweetly Sung; But Through The Years To Come Our Hearts Will Ring With Memories, As Dear As Time And Love Can Bring.