When color, fragrance, form
On the steeped sense the rose
With lavish boon bestows,
What is there left to give?

When after leaden storm
The thrush outpours the rain
Of happy song again,
What is there left to give?

When one star, brave and warm,
The sentinel of Night,
Yields to the surging light,
What is there left to give?

My rose, my thrush, my star that goes before,
What canst thou give but more?
Oh, live, live, live!