Lost
W. Hess
A little bird keeps calling,
wherever I may go;
my feet are tired and aching!
The little bird keeps calling,
I wander ever on.
Where has the calling vanished?
The sun has long since set.
It's hidden by the darkness,
it's covered by the night.
To whom shall I complain?
No star lights up the forest,
I found no more my path;
the flowers in the valleys,
the flowers in the woods,
they lower on in the dark.