And I was desolate and sick of an old passion. |
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion |
They are not long, the days of wine and roses. |
They are not long, the weeping and the laughter, / Love and desire and hate: / I think they have no portion in us after / We pass the gate. |
They are not, the days of wine and roses: Out of a misty dream, Our path emerges for a while, then closes, Within a dream |