For Music

The Indian Summer and Love have fled,
Oh, red, red lips like a crimson rose,
Oh, slender hands with the tips of red,
You are lost in the land of Nobody-knows.

The sweet breeze blows but it comes not back,
The water flows in a silver stream,
But never returns on its moon-white track,
They are gone, past recall, like a lovely dream.

Ah, crimson lips like a tilted flower,
Where sweetest honey awaits the bee;
Come back, come back for a single hour,
Dear Love, my Summer, come back to me.