It Is An Ancient Story Yet Is

And Over The Pond Are Sailing Two Swans All White As Snow; Sweet Voices Mysteriously Wailing Pierce Through Me As Onward They Go. They Sail Along, And A Ringing Sweet Melody Rises On High; And When The Swans Begin Singing, They Presently Must Die.

With His Nightcaps And The Tatters Of His Dressing-gown He Patches Up The Gaps In The Structure Of The Universe.

The Dragon-fly Is Dancing, - Is On The Water Glancing, She Flits About With Nimble Wing, The Flickering, Fluttering, Restless Thing. Besotted Chafers All Admire Her Light-blue, Gauze-like, Neat Attire; They Laud Her Blue Complexion, And Think Her Shape Perfection.

But A Day Must Come When The Fire Of Youth Will Be Quenched In My Veins, When Winter Will Dwell In My Heart, When His Snow Flakes Will Whiten My Locks, And His Mists Will Dim My Eyes. Then My Friends Will Lie In Their Lonely Grave, And I Alone Will Remain Like A Solitary Stalk Forgotten By The Reaper.

Thinking Of Germany In The Night Robs Me Of My Sleep.