When the white snow left the mountains,
When the spring unsealed the fountains,
When her eye the violet lifted
Where the autumn leaves had drifted
'Neath the budding maple-tree,
Amabare me.

Now the summer flowers are dying,
Now the summer streams are drying!
Yet I cry, though lone I linger
Where the autumn's wizard finger
Burns along the maple-tree,
Amabare me!

As the wild-bird, faint and dying,
Follows summer faithless flying,
So my heart, doubt's blank air beating
Broken-winged, is still repeating
While it follows, follows thee,
Amabare me.

Soon will Winter, gaunt and haggard,
Shroud a new grave, sodless, beggared;
Still, though not a flower be planted,
Not a requiem be chanted,
Not an eye with tears be laven,
On a gray stone will be graven
'Neath the leafless maple-tree,