Like a song that is sung, like a tale that is told,
The life in me hushes the voice of its gladness;
Youth walks by my side, but his hands have grown cold,
And deep in his eyes lurks the shadow of sadness.
Alas! for the flowers that never come to me;
Alas! for the morning again, now day closes;
The joy of a love is as nothing, for through me
There passes the deep-wounding thorn of the roses.