While hollow burst the rushing winds, And heavy beats the show'r, This anxious, aching bosom finds No comfort in its pow'r. 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.
- by Anne Hunter (1742 - 1821) [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
Available translations, adaptations, and transliterations (if applicable):
- FRE French (Français) (Guy Laffaille) , title 1: "Fidélité", copyright © 2008, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- DUT Dutch (Nederlands) [singable] (Lau Kanen) , title 1: "Trouw", copyright © 2016, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 16
Word count: 94