WHEN the vine again is blowing,
Then the wine moves in the cask;
When the rose again is glowing,
Wherefore should I feel oppress’d?
Down my cheeks run tears all-burning,
If I do, or leave my task;
I but feel a speechless yearning,
That pervades my inmost breast.
But at length I see the reason,
When the question I would ask:
‘Twas in such a beauteous season,
Doris glowed to make me blest!