Ah, now this happy month is gone,
Not now, my heart, complain,
Nor rail at Time because so soon He takes his own again.
He takes his own, the weeks, the hours,
But leaves the best with thee;
Seeds of imperishable flowers In fields of memory.
Ah, now this happy month is gone,
Not now, my heart, complain,
Nor rail at Time because so soon He takes his own again.
He takes his own, the weeks, the hours,
But leaves the best with thee;
Seeds of imperishable flowers In fields of memory.