Thou wert the first of all I knew
To pass unto the dead,
And Paradise hath seemed more true,
And come down closer to my view,
Since there thy presence fled.

The whispers of thy gentle soul
At silent lonely hours,
Like some sweet saint-bell's distant toll,
Come o'er the waters as they roll,
Betwixt thy world and ours.

Oh! still my spirit clings to thee,
And feels thee at my side;
Like a green ivy, when the tree,
Its shoots had clasped so lovingly,
Within its arms hath died:

And ever round that lifeless thing
Where first their clusters grew,
Close as while yet it lived they cling,
And shrine it in a second spring
Of lustre dark and new.