  The sunset in the rosy west Burned soft and high; A shore-lark fell like a stone to his nest In the waving rye. A wind came over the garden beds From the dreamy lawn, The pansies nodded their purple heads, The poppies began to yawn. One pansy said: It is only sleep, Only his gentle breath: But a rose lay strewn in a snowy heap, For the rose it was only death. Heigho, we’ve only one life to live, And only one death to die: Good-morrow, new world, have you nothing to give?— Good-bye, old world, good-bye. |
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