Blow out the candles, my little one, Lest more moths burn themselves; The moon must soon give place to the sun; And our watch by the dead be over and done; O I am cold, -- cold! Out of the marshes the wild-geese rise And float away on the misty skies; And the ash-tree leaves on the pale grass shiver To feel the dawn come up from the river. O I am cold, -- cold! Fetch sticks for the fire, my little son; We know of what wood those are; And who gathered them for us one by one As far he went, -- how far! Never again, son, never again! Why does the dawn tap on the pane Like a traveller sick and old? O that this night might have lasted on! -- Listen! Is that their feet? -- With you and me, my little son, And him there, under the sheet; Lasted on and on and on! O I am cold, -- cold. |