Now another century blended
With past centuries rolls away;
When another century's ended,
All that lives will be but clay.
Thou and I—a pair so joyous,
Spite of dance and song must die;
Time, rude tempest, will destroy us,
On his death-piles shall we lie.
Dost thou mourn? O mourn no longer!
Death is strong, but love is stronger;
And where'er we go, shall go,
Sheltering us from lonely woe.