The Night slips his arm about the Moon And walks till the skies grow gray; But my Love, when I speak of love, Has never a word to say. I set my dreams at her feet as lamps For which all my hope must pay; But my Love, when I speak of love, Has never a word to say. I fill her hands with a gleaming soul For her plaything night and day; But she, when I speak to her of love, Has never a word to say. I give my life, which is hers to kill Or to keep with her alway; And still, when I speak to her of love, She’s never a word to say. The Night slips his arm about the Moon And walks till the skies grow gray; But my Love, when I speak of love, Has never a word to say.
|