WHEN the vine again is blowing,

Then the wine moves in the cask;
When the rose again is glowing,

 Wherefore should I feel oppress'd?

Down my cheeks run tears all-burning,

If I do, or leave my task;
I but feel a speechless yearning,

 That pervades my inmost breast.

But at length I see the reason,

When the question I would ask:
'Twas in such a beauteous season,

 Doris glowed to make me blest!