The Miller and the Brook

The Miller:
When a loyal heart
Perishes from love,
The lilies wither
in every field;
The full moon must hide
itself in the clouds,
So people won’t see
its tears;
And the angels close
Their eyes
And sob and sing
His soul to peace.
Der Bach:
And when love frees
Itself from pain,
A little star, a new one,
Twinkles in the sky;
And three roses spring,
Half red and half white,
That never wither,
From the thorny stem.
And the angels cut off
Their wings
And every morning
Go down to earth.
The Miller:
Oh brook, dear brook,
You mean so well:
Oh brook, but do you know
What love does to you?
Ah, below, down there,
The cool repose!
Oh brook, dear brook,
Just sing to me.