Poulenc: Quatre Motets Pour Le Temps De Noël, Fp 152: No. 1, O Magnum Mysterium

What then is love but mourning?
What desire but a self-burning?
Till she that hates doth love return
Thus I will mourn, thus will I sing,
Come away, come away, my darling.

Beauty is but a blooming,
Youth in his glory entombing;
Time hath a while which none can stay,
So come away while I thus sing,
Come away, come away, my darling.

Summer in winter fadeth,
Gloomy night heav'nly light shadeth,
Like to the morn are Venus' flowers,
Such are her hours, then will I sing,
Come away, come away, my darling.