this useless time of after the sunset
does nothing to free me of my sad wake
and a fair night of fair dreams is still yet
to sing upon my head and to sleep make
in fall, in spring, in days of old, not told-
i'd lie in bed, without a lie in hand
for years! a story without any gold.
two days, two weeks would i try to withstand;
but to this date i've not any fortune
of ever finding the love i dream of.
and dream we have all, in the lighted moon-
and still i have yet to feel real, this love;
my limbs and hopes and prayer raised up high
with foolish dreams i wish to fill the sky.