Dear, they are singing your praises, Now you are gone. But only I saw your going, I . . . alone . . . in the dawn. Dear, they are weeping about you, Now you are dead, And they've placed a granite stone Over your head. I cannot cry any more, Too burning deep is my grief. . . . I dance through my spendthrift days Like a fallen leaf. Faster and faster I whirl Toward the end of my days. Dear, I am drunken with sadness And lost down strange ways. If only the dance would finish Like a flash in the sky . . . oh, soon, If only a storm would come shouting -- Hurl me past stars and moon! |