MY tiny lady, can it
Be true that you and I,
On something called a planet,
Are somewhere in the sky ?
Yes—and at such a tearing
And madcap speed we've spun,
That you, with dreadful daring,
Have thrice been round the sun.
And now 'neath western billow
The sun is put to bed,
And you, too, on your pillow
Must lay a golden head.
Ah, tears—they come so quickly,
For grief so quickly gone!
Yet joys have rained as thickly,
For you to dream upon.
