Open main menu





In youth we raised our brows on high,
When first we heard Life's thunder roar,
Unwearied Life its thunder sent;
But we ere long our heads had bent,
Why let the brow be smitten sore?

Wherefore lament? Wise destiny
Has measured out our final hour!
A grave on earth . . . O wondrous fair,
Why for another end prepare?
Yea, for no longer have we power.


"Third Book of Lyrics".