SONG
.
WHEN
hollow
bursts
the
rushing
wind
,
And
heavy
beats
the
shower
,
This
anxious
,
aching
bosom
finds
No
comfort
in
its
power
.
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
twin'd
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
thy
doom
,
The
lot
is
cast
for
me
;
Or
in
the
world
,
or
in
the
tomb
,
My
heart
is
fix'd
on
thee
.