Thou sayest our friends are only dead
To idle mirth and sorrow,
Regretful tears for what is fled,
And yearnings for to-morrow.
Alas, that love should know alloy—
How frail the cup that holds our joy!
Thou sighest, "How sweet it were to rove
Those paths of asphodel;
Where all we prize, and all who love,
Rejoice!" Ah, who can tell?
Yet sweet it were, knit hand in hand,
To lead thee through a better land.
Why wish the fleeting years to stay?—
When time for us is flown,
There is this garden,—far away,
An Eden all our own:
And there I'll whisper in thine ear
—Ah! what I may not tell thee here!