Bid me to mope and mourn, love, for I haven’t the mind to sing.
Though the Sun may shine in the skies, dear,
Though the day be blithesome and gay;
When the Mirth of my heart quietly dies, dear,
Poor homage to joy can I pay.
For I am far from thy love, dear,
From thee who my heart feeds with smiles;
More fair than the blossoms above, dear,
Or the Pearls of the fairy isles.
How then can I sing a song, love?