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Clearly the
blue river chimes in its flowing
Under my eye;
Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing
Over the sky.
One after another the white
clouds are fleeting;
Every heart this May morning in
joyance is beating
Full merrily;
Yet
all things must die.
The stream will cease to flow;
The wind will cease to blow;
The clouds will cease
to fleet;
The heart will cease to beat;
For
all things must die.
All things must die.
Spring will come never more.
O, vanity!
Death waits at the door.
See! our friends are all
forsaking
The wine and the merrymaking.
We are
call’d–we must go.
Laid low, very low,
In the
dark we must lie.
The merry glees are still;
The
voice of the bird
Shall no more be heard,
Nor
the wind on the hill.
O, misery!
Hark!
death is calling
While I speak to ye,
The jaw is
falling,
The red cheek paling,
The strong limbs
failing;
Ice with the warm blood mixing;
The
eyeballs fixing.
Nine times goes the passing bell:
Ye merry souls, farewell.
The old earth
Had a birth,
As all men know,
Long ago.
And the old earth must die.
So
let the warm winds range,
And the blue wave beat the
shore;
For even and morn
Ye will never see
Thro’ eternity.
All things were born.
Ye will
come never more,
For all things must die.
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