The tide has left the brown beach bare,
The birds have fled the upper air;
Upon her branch the lone cuckoo
Is chanting still her sad adieu;
And you, my fair hair'd girl, must go
Across the salt sea under woe.
I through love have learned three things,
Sorrow, sin, and death it brings,
Yet day by day my heart within
Dares shame and sorrow, death and sin;