The old man sat down to the piano:
"Now you shall hear one of his songs," said he. And with fingers not so stiff as might have been expected, and with a low voice, as though one were fingering a church bell--particularly with a peculiar use of head-voice, he hummed:
When does the morning dawn?
When golden rays are floating
O'er the snow-covered heights
Deep down in the dark rifts,
Lifts
The stem that turns to the light
Till it feels like an angel with wings.
Then it is morning,
Bright clear morning.
But in stormy weather,
And when my heart is sad,
There's no morn for me,
None.
Surely the morning has dawned
When the flowers have burst into bloom,
And the birds having broken their fast,
Are chirping a promise that
The woods
Shall have fresh green crowns as a gift,
The brook have a sight of the sea.
Then it is morning,
Bright, clear morning.
But in stormy weather,
And when my heart is sad,
There's no morn for me,
None.
When does the morning dawn?
When the strength that glows through
Sorrow and storm, awakens
The sun in thy soul, so thy bosom
Warmly
Embraces the world in this cause:
To be truly good to each and all!
Then it is morning,
Bright, clear morning.