MY SONGS ABE the same as are the spring flowers, they come from you.
Yet I bring these to you as my own.
You smile and accept them, and you are glad at my joy of pride.
If my song flowers are frail and they fade and drop in the dust, I shall never grieve.
For absence is not loss in your hand, and the fugitive moments that blossom in beauty are kept ever fresh in your wreath.