“Ah, Poet, the evening draws near; your hair is turning gray.
“Do you in your lonely musing hear the message of the hereafter?'
“It is evening,” the poet said, “and I am listening because some one may call from the village, late though it be.
“I watch if young straying hearts meet together, and two pairs of eager eyes beg for music to break their silence and speak for them.
“Who is there to weave their passionate songs, if I sit on the shore of life and contemplate death and the beyond?
“The early evening star disappears.
“The glow of the funeral pyre slowly dies by the silent river.