[FOR MUSIC]
The Indian Summer and Love have fled,
Oh, red, red lips like a crimson rose,
Oh, slender hands with the tips of red,
You are lost in the land of Nobody-knows.
The sweet breeze blows but it comes not back,
The water flows in a silver stream,
But never returns on its moon-white track,
They are gone, past recall, like a lovely dream.
Ah, crimson lips like a tilted flower,
Where sweetest honey awaits the bee;
Come back, come back for a single hour,
Dear Love, my Summer, come back to me.
[THE LITTLE GHOST]
The little one who loved the sun
Who only lived for play,
Ah, why was she the one condemned
To dark and dreams for aye!
The perfect perfume of her life
Was as a rose's breath,
And now she treads eternally
The gusty walks of Death.