F on my grave the summer grass were growing, Or heedless winter winds across it blowing, Through joyous June or desolate December, How long, Sweetheart, how long would you remember, How long, dear love, how long?
For brightest eyes would open to the summer, And sweetest smiles would greet the sweet new-comer, And on young lips grow kisses for the taking When all the summer buds to bloom are breaking,— How long, dear love, how long?
To the dim land where sad-eyed ghosts walk only, Where lips are cold, and waiting hearts are lonely, I would not call you from your youth's warm blisses; Fill up your glass and crown it with new kisses,— How long, dear love, how long?
Too gay, in June, you may be to regret me, And living lips may woo you to forget me; But, ah, Sweetheart, I think you will remember When winds are weary in your life's December,— So long, dear love, so long!
F on my grave the summer grass were growing, 
F on my grave the summer grass were growing, 