Bleeding Heart and Broken Wings

Few listened to the lonely singer's lay.

Our life, it is a little day;

He sang, and vanished in the valley dim,

Where, all in vain, praise followed him.

Our life, it is a bitter day.

One gave for naught a loving heart away;

They brought white lilies, but too late for her

To see how like herself they were.

Heaven-taught, the maiden loves, the poet sings.

Dear bleeding heart, poor broken wings!

So has it ever been through all the years, —

For song the sorrow, for love the tears.