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Having arranged my room to my satisfaction, I gave myself up to the intoxication of despair. I probed my heart to the bottom in order to sound its depths. A Tyrolean song that my loved one used to sing began to run through my head: Altra volta gieri biele, Blanch' a rossa com' un flore, Ma ora no. Non son piu biele Consumatis dal' amore.
What had I done with all that? It seemed to me that a strange voice repeated an old romance that I had long since forgotten: Altra volta gieri biele, Blanch' e rossa com' un flore, Ma ora no. Non son piu biele Consumatis dal' amore. My sorrow was too great; I sprang to my feet and once more began to walk the floor.
Having arranged my room to my satisfaction I gave myself up to the intoxication of despair. I probed my heart to the bottom in order to sound its depths. A Tyrolean song that my mistress used to sing began to run through my head: Altra volta gieri biele, Blanch 'e rossa com' un flore; Ma ora no. Non son piu biele, Consumatis dal' amore.*
What had I done with all that? It seemed to me that a strange voice repeated an old romance that I had long since forgotten: Altra volta gieri biele, Blanch' e rossa com' un flore, Ma ora no. Non son piu biele Consumatis dal' amore. My sorrow was too great; I sprang to my feet and once more began to walk the floor.
What had I done with all that? It seemed to me that a strange voice repeated an old romance that I had long since forgotten: Altra volta gieri biele, Blanch' e rossa com' un flore, Ma ora no. Non son piu biele Consumatis dal' amore. My sorrow was too great; I sprang to my feet and once more began to walk the floor.
Having arranged my room to my satisfaction, I gave myself up to the intoxication of despair. I probed my heart to the bottom in order to sound its depths. A Tyrolean song that my loved one used to sing began to run through my head: Altra volta gieri biele, Blanch' a rossa com' un flore, Ma ora no. Non son piu biele Consumatis dal' amore.
What had I done with all that? It seemed to me that a strange voice repeated an old romance that I had long since forgotten: Altra volta gieri biele, Blanch' e rossa com' un flore, Ma ora no. Non son piu biele Consumatis dal' amore. My sorrow was too great; I sprang to my feet and once more began to walk the floor.
Having arranged my room to my satisfaction, I gave myself up to the intoxication of despair. I probed my heart to the bottom in order to sound its depths. A Tyrolean song that my loved one used to sing began to run through my head: Altra volta gieri biele, Blanch' a rossa com' un flore, Ma ora no. Non son piu biele Consumatis dal' amore.
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