A ROUND the wintry tomb,
Blown by the drear wind's breath,
As with a voice of doom
The dry leaf rustleth;
But a secret voice still whispers,
“O soul, there is no death!”

Hearts on the altar laid
May seem to perish, slain;
The sacrificial blood
May seem to flow in vain;
But a secret voice still whispers,
“O true soul, not in vain!”