This echo now to lovers far behind,
not wailed regret to steal away a lung,
is come from o’er the steppe and longs to find
you in a glade where we were never young.
Perhaps the lilts of song thus long depressed
may breach as starlings broach the hills and we,
as mountains rise, as flood must ardent crest,
so too the wisp of creeks becomes the sea.
And if upon your crevassed cheek a blush
may spring unfelt and furrowed in your sleep,
know that these airs that soft upon you brush
are not lament nor errant cause to weep.
See, then in bloom our love was thus consigned
to part and die, not once to be maligned.