All Things will Die
Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing
Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing
One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating
The stream will cease to flow;
The wind will cease to blow;
The clouds will cease to fleet;
The heart will cease to beat;
Spring will come never more.
See! our friends are all forsaking
The wine and the merrymaking.
We are call’d–we must go.
The merry glees are still;
Nor the wind on the hill.
The strong limbs failing;
Ice with the warm blood mixing;
Nine times goes the passing bell:
Ye merry souls, farewell.
And the old earth must die.
So let the warm winds range,
And the blue wave beat the shore;
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