Not a voice awakens the mountains,
No gladness returns with the dawn,
Not a smile is mirrored in the fountains,
For Lula, sweet Lula is gone.
Day is bereft of its pleasures,
Night of its beautiful dreams,
While the dirge of well remembered measures
Is murmured by the ripple on the streams.
When I view the chill blighted bowers
And roam o’er the snow covered plain
How I long for spring’s budding flowers
To welcome her sweet smiles again.
Why does the earth seem forsaken?
Time will this sadness remove:
At her voice the meadows will awaken
To verdure, sweet melody and love.