I hear the children's voices,
I hear them in the field.
Their laughter sounds by the river.
And suddenly I think
of the days of my youth.
I was not here then.
Come home now, my children,
it is already much too late.
The tower clock strikes eleven.
Your spring, your daylight
you waste in playing.
And your winter, your night,
as someone other than yourself.
Come home now, my children,
it is already much too late.
The clock of the tower strikes eleven.
Your spring, your daylight
you waste it playing.
And your winter, your night,
as someone other than yourself.

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