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The Weight of Years
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Idlewild
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1
Girls, be good to these spirits
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Of music and poetry,
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And lift the lyre so clear and sweet
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They need with you (?)
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But as for me, this body,
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Which is now so arthritic:
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I cannot play,
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I Can barely even hold the instrument,
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And oh,
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The song grows heavy with the body
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Some gloomy poems
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Came from these thoughts
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And useless,
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We are all born to lose life,
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Like we lose our youth
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And oh,
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The song grows heavy with the body.
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And so I stepped in quite clearly
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From my hiding place
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To then suspect
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That she would grow old and grey
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And he despaired in his mortal way and said
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Oh,
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The song grows heavy with the body.
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