Lullaby

In the green summer foliage,

where the vibrating vines creep,

the blonde maiden sits and thinks,

the flitting bees humming drowsily.

The fountain babbles dreamily,

swallows twitter and chirp;

from the warm blue sky come breezes

that swing the butterflies to and fro upon the flowers.

Upon white, closed eyelids

breathes gentle slumber.

A pale traveller comes down the path

through the flowering bushes of the garden;

the traveler Death is coming.

At his withered lips he holds

a flute, made of grey bone,

and he plays to the slumberer a pretty

and melancholy lullaby.