Dancing with the moonbeams on a mound,
In the wind they all were whirled away,
And the fireflies searched the dews around.
Seven little Indian stars are they,
Seven, and only one, my child, is dim.
That's the Singer, their sad stories say;
That's the Singer—let us pity him.
Oh, the little Singer! (You can see
He's not shining as the others are.)
Once, when all the stars made wishes, he