ALL SUNG

What shall I sing when all is sung,

And every tale is told,

And in the world is nothing young

That was not long since old?

Why should I fret unwilling ears

With old things sung anew,

While voices from the old dead years

Still go on singing too?

A dead man singing of his maid

Makes all my rhymes in vain,

Yet his poor lips must fade and fade,

And mine shall kiss again.

Why should I strive through weary moons

To make my music true?

Only the dead men knew the tunes

The live world dances to.