»Is it the cruel lark I hear
On silent watch o’er Munichs skyline?
Because it heralds rising sunshine
It is the bird that most I fear.
The lark abducts you from my eyes
Which try to drowsyly retain
Your fading face on starless skies,
Sweet nightingale, but all’s in vain.
The singled notes with which you blessed
Me form euphonious symphonies
By night, but distand memories
By day. Whenever I’m at rest
You echo loudly through my head.
In dreams alive, awoken dead.
For F. P.«