Time is swiftly fleeing,
All changes in its track,
What was not, shall soon be;
What was, shall ne’er come back.
Time is swiftly fleeing
A year just like a day,
But one thing never changes . . .
A sin cannot pass away.
Three years sped by and vanished
Since he was laid to rest,
Over his grave a scented rug
Of verdant grass is pressed.
Green grass upon his grave,
An oak tree at the head,
Upon the oak, a dove coos sadly,
Its snowy wings outspread.
Upon the oak he flutters,
And coos a mournful strain,
The hearts of all who hear it
Fill with an untold pain.
But none grieves more or suffers
As grieves one woman’s heart,
She tears her hair, lamenting,
Fear rends her soul apart.
“Oh, do not coo, and cry not,
Moan not into my ears,
Your cruel song is piercing
My aching soul with spears.
Oh, do not coo, complain not,
My head swims in sheer dread,
Or better that you howl until
It bursts my weary head.”
Swiftly flow the waters,
The waves each other chase,
And ‘twixt the foaming billows
A white dress seeks a place.
27
