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Shyly, Sweetly. Treason!
Shyly, sweetly sings the lark
From hidden creviced boughs,
Over cresting spring-time growth,
Warbling true summer vows.
Sadly, softly sings the dirge
In my own throat forming,
Torn from shattered heart remains
Over the grave, in mourning.
My lover, he has died!
My own true love 's no more!
No more spring to share with him-
The season 's shut the door.
How then to enjoy life's growth?
To join in hymns of praise?
Bleakness now lies heavily
On empty nights and days.
Yet clear and sweet sings the lark
Lauding this great season.
But me, I cannot stand it!
To me it is treason!
