Run ye, river, run,
Before the day is done.
Before the setting of the sun,
Before the ice muffles your thunderous grunt.
Look, the trees hath lost their valour,
At their foot the dead sons there gather.
But soon the frost will over them cover,
And all will be forgotten before the end of December.
Drink ye up the last wine of summer,
Before the wind strips bare the valley of colour.
Sleep now and dream the last dream of summer,
For at dawn the wind shall bring the chill of winter.
Wake ye up to the sound of silence,
When Winter’s dealt its final sentence.
When none is left but pain and penitence,
Would ye then end thy pitiful existence?