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Waking or asleep, thou of death must deem |
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Things more true and deep than we mortals dream |
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We look before and after and pine for what's not |
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Our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught |
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Will thou now forget the happy hours |
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Which we buried in love's, in love's sweet bowers |
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Heaping over their corpses so cold |
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Blossoms and leaves instead of the mold? |
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Forget the dead and the past? Oh yet, |
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There are ghosts that may take revenge for it, |
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Memories that make the cold heart a tomb |
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Regrets which glide through the spirit's gloom, |
