Now far I am from you, before
my fire alone,
And read again the hours that so silently
have gone,
And it seems that eighty years beneath my
feet did glide,
That I am old as winter, that maybe you have
died.
The shadows of the past swift
stream across life's floor
The tale of all times, nothings that now exist
no more;
While the wind with clumsy fingers softly
fumbles at the blind
And sadly spins the fibre of the story in
my mind...
I see you stand before me in a mist that does
enfold,
Your eyes are full of tears,
and your fingers long and cold;
About my neck caressing your arms you gently
ply
And it seems you want to speak to me yet only
sigh.
And thus I clasp entranced my all, my world
of grace,
And both our lives are joined
in that supreme embrace...
Oh, let the voice of memory remain forever
dumb,
Forget the joy that was, but that nevermore
will come,
Forget how after an instant you thrust my
arms aside,
For now I'm old and lonely, and maybe you
have died.