My Virtual Reading Room

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Lyrics:

When the still-unclear voice of trumpets suddenly is heard,
The words, like night-hawks, fly off the burning lips,
And the melody, like a chance guest,
Thunders and wanders about amongst people,
The small orchestra of Hope,
Which Love directs.

In the years of parting, the years of tumult,
When the leaden rains
Pounded on our backs so hard,
That we couldn't hope for mercy,
And all the commanding officers went hoarse,
Then commanding everyone was
The small orchestra of Hope, which Love directs.

The clarinet has a hole through it, the trumpet is crumpled,
The oboe is worn down, like an old walking-staff,
The seams are coming apart on the drum,
But the clarinet-player is a handsome devil!
The flutist is elegant, like a young Duke,
And it is always in an cahoots with people,
The small orchestra of Hope, which Love directs.