 | Carol and Cadence |  |
20.
Ah, Summer, too late
Thou com'st with thy state
Of meadow and plain
In bloom!
The winter o'erlong
My soul with its wrong
Hath poisoned, my brain
With its gloom.
Thou com'st with thy state
Of meadow and plain
In bloom!
The winter o'erlong
My soul with its wrong
Hath poisoned, my brain
With its gloom.
Thou, also, o Love,
Too late from above
Thou comest, sweet bird,
To mate.
My world-wasted heart
In thee hath no part;
“Too late!” is the word,
“Too late!”
Too late from above
Thou comest, sweet bird,
To mate.
My world-wasted heart
In thee hath no part;
“Too late!” is the word,
“Too late!”
| Carol and Cadence | |