And one is ebbing away from my feet,
And the other is rising more and more.
Ah, poor little maiden! ah, dear little wife!
Ah, days that are past and days that will come!
The past is nothing—this only is life;
I am going with him and am going Home.
And such a sweet pretty home as it is!
What shall I do with my exquisite bliss?
How can I ever be charming enough,
Where rumpling a roseleaf will make the path rough?