Ah, he who forgets,
His love has but slighted;
In vain by his heart
His troth has been plighted.
Ah, he who forgets,—
In the bounds of the world
For him ne'er has joy
Its blossoms unfurled.
Ah, he who forgets,
The bliss he has borne
In his hands is the blossom
Changed to a thorn.
Ah, he who forgets,—
His transgression is sore,
And God will take pleasure
In him nevermore.