What! dead?
The heart of love
And the lips of song
To the burial bed
And the grave belong?
Not dead?
Oh! can it be
That the locks so fair
Which goldened her head,
Lie lusterless there?
Ay, dead!
Oh, fond friend's tear!
Oh, mother's moan!
What stands in her stead
But the burial stone?
Why dead?
Truth never dies,
And love lives long;
And the two were wed
In her life of song.
What, dead!
While living souls
Eternally stir
With the influence shed
By the soul of her?
Not dead!
So pure her life
That its raptest mood
Has only up-led
To the angelhood.