  I met a runnel amid the meads, In the evening, in the evening, And it did ramble ’mongst rush and reeds, In the evening, in the evening, And I did linger to hear its song, As it did carelessly wind along, In the evening, in the evening. What sang the runnel upon its way? In the evening, in the evening; I listened long to its happy lay, In the evening, in the evening; But all my musing seemed but in vain, And all its music awoke but pain, In the evening, in the evening. The blooming thornapple on its bank, Also listened, also listened, And flags and buttercups, dewy dank, Also listened, also listened; And thrushes nestling in alder-trees, Did hush their babes with its melodies, And they listened, and they listened. I asked the violets on its side, In the evening, in the evening,— If they its song would to me confide, In the evening, in the evening; And like some children of guileless soul They said: “Its lay is the song of all, In the evening, in the evening. “The ceaseless longing to reach the sea, In the evening, in the evening; The song of life and eternity, In the evening, in the evening; A lay of love in the early morn, A lay of hope to the lone and lorn,— In the evening, in the evening.” |
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