Song From an Opera

Hard bloweth the wind, and the trees are bending,
I weep, for my heart aches so, with a pain unending.

My years pass in my woe, and so shall ever—
Alone I mourn, my folk must see me never.

For when none see the tears, and no one chideth,
Peace in my heart a moment then abideth.

Else, those around me say with laughter scornful,
“She weeps—O well, what’s that—she’s always rather mournful!”

They do not know the cause for tears upwelling,
Ah, not to them in words the truth I’m telling.

How lives the tree that in the sand is growing,
When sun and dew no bounties are bestowing?

How live I then, when in the day so weary
My sweetheart comes not to my heart so dreary?