A Song
Thou art the soul of a summer’s day,Thou art the breath of the rose.But the summer is fledAnd the rose is deadWhere are they gone, who knows, who knows?
Thou art the blood of my heart o’ hearts,Thou art my soul’s repose,But my heart grows numbAnd my soul is dumbWhere art thou, love, who knows, who knows?
Thou art the hope of my after years—Sun for my winter snowsBut the years go by’Neath a clouded sky.Where shall we meet, who knows, Who knows?