Songs of Sorrow

   With His songs and Her days to His Lady and to Love
Violets and leaves of vine,
  Into a frail, fair wreath 
We gather and entwine:
  A wreath for Love to wear,
  Fragrant as his own breath, 
To crown his brow divine,
  All day till night is near. 
Violets and leaves of vine 
We gather and entwine.

Violets and leaves of vine
  For Love that lives a day, 
We gather and entwine.
  All day till Love is dead,
  Till eve falls, cold and gray,
These blossoms, yours and mine,
  Love wears upon his head. 
Violets and leaves of vine 
We gather and entwine.

Violets and leaves of vine,
  Poor Love when poor Love dies
We gather and entwine.
  This wreath that lives a day
  Over his pale, cold eyes,
Kissed shut by Proserpine,
  At set of sun we lay:
Violets and leaves of vine 
We gather and entwine.

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
  Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
  We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
  Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
  Within a dream.

What land of Silence,
  Where pale stars shine
On apple-blossom
  And dew-drenched vine,
  Is yours and mine?

The silent valley
  That we will find,
Where all the voices
  Of humankind
  Are left behind.

There all forgetting,
  Forgotten quite,
We will repose us,
  With our delight
  Hid out of sight.

The world forsaken,
  And out of mind
Honour and labour,
  We shall not find
  The stars unkind.

And men shall travail,
  And laugh and weep;
But we have vistas
  Of gods asleep,
With dreams as deep.

A land of Silence,
  Where pale stars shine
On apple-blossoms
  And dew-drenched vine,
Be yours and mine!

See how the trees and the osiers lithe
Are green bedecked and the woods are blithe. 
The meadows have donned their cape of flowers, 
The air is soft with the sweet May showers, 
And the birds make melody: 
But the spring of the soul, the spring of the soul 
Cometh no more for you or for me.

The lazy hum of the busy bees 
Murmureth through the almond trees; 
The jonquil flaunteth a gay, blonde head, 
The primrose peeps from a mossy bed, 
And the violets scent the lane. 
But the flowers of the soul, the flowers of the soul 
For you and for me bloom never again.