|
klarchen
|
I love to steal at twilight
To the desolate, somber shore,
Sweetheart, there to think of you!
When the ceiling grows dark,
The reeds rustle secretively,
They lament and whisper
That I should weep.
And I think I hear drifting
Softly the sound of your voice
And in the water sinking
The strains of your sweet song.
|
000623
|
