Enough of singing; since your heart is tired,
We'll leave the lute, so long, so long desired,
And in the silence speak one quiet word,
Simple as earth, forgetting song and bird.
No more of singing; mating-time has sped,
In the broad fields the poppy-lips are red.
Crush them, Beloved, drink the lethe deep;
Song being dead, what else is left but sleep?