That Chopin oft stood on the brink
Of dreadful Melancholy's lair,
Where in great anguish and despair,
So sick in body, mind and soul,
With only Death as his sure goal,
Sweet and lively airs he wrote
And filled with joy his every note.
For ten long years the white plague sought
To take his life—for health he fought,
But when his sweetheart left his side