The hills are purple with heathery sheen.
The branches of the brown broom sway.
But who knows now how rich and green
The forest was in May?
Who knows now how blackbirds sang
And who can hear the cuckoo’s call?
The sounds that once so sweetly rang
Are lost beyond recall.
Above the hills a full round moon
Midsummer parties in the wood—
Who captured them, who wrote them down?
Now they’re gone for good.
Soon you and I will disappear
Unknown, we’ll be on no one’s list.
Others will be living here
And we shall not be missed.
We’ll wait for the evening star in the sky
And the morning mist across the sward
And we’ll gladly blossom, gladly die
In the garden of the Lord.