A smould'ring fire's smoke, sounds of metallic chimes,
A dying swan's last song, paradise gone away,
Thus fled my childhood days.
But in these changing times
Days of my vanished youth—are like this song of May . . .
Just like a night in May, where the barren mountains part;
A smile upon my lips, a sorrow in my heart.
See yonder wanderer upon tha grassy lane,
Hastening toward his goal, ere the sunset dies again?
This wanderer in life you shall see never more,
Once he had passed the hill, you'll search for him in vain,
Oh never—never again! That holds my life in store.
To my grief-aching heart, who can some solace give?
Without an end is love . . . A blighted love I live!
'tis late at eve . . . first day of May,
A night in May . . . 'tis time for love.
A love lure sings the turtle dove.
"Hynek—William—Geraldine."
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