Life sadly singing by its highs,
long lives its old to sleep.
Of silent sighs and lonely skies
will windy nights now weep.
Now fleeting beats so pale will fly,
that only keen men chance.
In watchful eyes and willful lives,
only the free still dance.
How soon passed its heavenly flow,
its singing shores so bare.
Flights alone will beauty forgo,
and ever its streams stare.
Sweet cries of night, hold now, subside!
Your unsung holy dream
will soon sound loud, but softly bound,
caught light in God's great seam.