You sang . . . The sad years fled like mist,
The hills were green again,
The lilies opened snow-white cups
        In every wood and glen.

You sang . . . The dark to sunlight turned,
        The skies were blue above,
And every lark across the fields
        Took up the tune of love.

You sang . . . Our hearts were young again,
        Your notes dropped sweet and slow,
And each remembered one whose name
        Must now be spoken low.