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“The singer feels not, in that thus he sings,”
You say?—Nay, if he sang not, pain would kill
He takes the help God brings
Who bids him even in hell's depths sing on still.
“The singer feels not”—Nay, so much he feels
That, if he sang not, every day
In blank despair would creep away
And self-destruction lurk at darkness' heels.
You say?—Nay, if he sang not, pain would kill
He takes the help God brings
Who bids him even in hell's depths sing on still.
“The singer feels not”—Nay, so much he feels
That, if he sang not, every day
In blank despair would creep away
And self-destruction lurk at darkness' heels.
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