There isn’t more cloud than sun.
We are old folks now, my darling;
Our heads they are growing gray;
But, taking the year all round, my dear,
You will always find the May.
We’ve had our May, my darling,
And our roses, long ago;
And the time of the year is coming, my dear,
For the long dark nights and the snow.
But God is God, my darling,