Death reaped my hope and love long, long ago,
Stealing my idol in his cruel wrath;
And never more upon my life's hard path
Shall love spring forth in bloom. For tho' I know
The wounded tree in greater strength may grow,
Blossoming bright again; and mown grass hath
Often a richer, rarer aftermath,
With my sad life it never can be so.

The loosened tendril ne'er will coil again;
The withered rose will never raise her head
To meet the kisses of the warmest rain
That ever was from weeping heaven shed.
And so my heart, half petulant with pain,
Cries—“Speak no more of love, my love is dead.”