Tell the spring, let it not come to my door,
Their season ensnares, traps them who adore.
Tell the spring, let it not come to my door.
A fire within my heart, yet tears overflow,
A fire within my heart, yet tears overflow,
A tale of sorrow, a story I know.
With her gone, to whom can I now convey?
With her gone, to whom can I now convey?
Tell the spring, let it not come to my door.
That golden face, those arms like silver bright,
That golden face, those arms like silver bright,
All things were her, yet her gaze took flight.
As seasons changed, so did her ways sway.
As seasons changed, so did her ways sway.
Tell the spring, let it not come to my door.
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