Der Wald: XI. Epilogue
Ethel Smyth
How swiftly passeth man's delight, and e'en like a dream his pains forgot
We, the immortals, fade not, neither perish, are old as the heavens, as young as the blossoms that herald a bounteous spring
How swiftly passeth man's delight, and e'en like a dream his pains forgot
We, the immortals, fade not, neither perish, are old as the heavens, as young as the blossoms that herald a bounteous spring