They drift down the hall together; He smiles in her lifted eyes; Like waves of that mighty river, The strains of the "Danube" rise. They float on its rhythmic measure Like leaves on a summer-stream; And here, in this scene of pleasure, I bury my sweet, dead dream.
Through the cloud of her dusky tresses, Like a star, shines out her face, And the form his strong arm presses Is sylph like in its grace. As a leaf on the bounding river Is lost in the seething sea, I know that forever and ever My dream is lost to me.
And still the viols are playing That grand old wordless rhyme; And still those two ate swaying In perfect tune and time. If the great bassoons that mutter, If the clarinets that blow, Were given a voice to utter The secret things they know,
Would the lists of the slam who slumber On the Danube's battle-plains The unknown hosts outnumber Who die 'neath the "Danube's" strains? Those fall where cannons rattle, 'Mid the rain of shot and shell; But these, in a fiercer battle, Find death in the music's swell.
With the river's roar of passion Is blended the dying groan; But here, in the halls of fashion, Hearts break, and make no moan. And the music, swelling and sweeping, Like the river, knows it all; But none are counting or keeping The lists of these who fall.
End of title
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