The Swan-Song
Alas! that the bohemian muse
Should call so late upon the singer,
When on the borders of the grave,
A little while his footsteps linger.
She brings a wreath to deck my bier,
When years all mortal hopes dissever,
And beckons to detain me here,
When evening shades grow thick for ever.
Should call so late upon the singer,
When on the borders of the grave,
A little while his footsteps linger.
She brings a wreath to deck my bier,
When years all mortal hopes dissever,
And beckons to detain me here,
When evening shades grow thick for ever.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.