How deep do I love you sweet songbird of mine!
How long, in my chateau, for you I did pine.
Each night found me howling like Timber Wolf Grey;
when cynical suitors swore you’d passed away.
How much did I suffer when you wouldn’t sing;
how often I wondered why you wouldn\'t wing
yourself to my window when spring it had sprung,
when song of sweet sorrow your voice should have sung.
For each twilit evening since youth, for me, dawned,
while moon above mellowed, all silver and horned.
You’d come to me daily; in winter or fall;
both springtime and summer each echoed your call.
Oh, sweet bird of sorrow, I’ve missed you so long;
I’ve even forgotten the sound of your song!
My nightingale neighbours nest near to my door;
at sunset, I hear them, they croak and they craw.
Not one sings as sweetly as songbird of mine;
not one’s as delightful or deeply divine.
And one bright tomorrow, I know that you’ll sing,
for I can’t believe that you died in the spring.