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The last dance
Midnight is past, and it is time to go:
Yet still I linger in the banquet hall
And with the dancers clap my hands and call
For one waltz more, although my stop lags slow,
And my dark coachman waits for me I know
Upon the lowest stair. The petals fall
From the pale rose upon my breast, and all
The waxen tapers in their urns burn low.
Sweet partners in our all too brief quadrille,
Full loath am I to loose your clinging hands,
And so I dance again and tarry still
While on the stair my patient coachman stands.
And where he takes me when I go from here
Your arms are waiting for me, O my dear!