'Twas here I walked with you. But you are dead. . . .
(I wonder if the roses on your grave can still be red.)

This lonely lane once flowered with your smile. . . .
(I wonder if the stars have made for you a shining bed.)

I held your hand Belovéd, all the while. . . .
(I wonder why I still recall the tender words you said.)

'Twas here I walked with you. But you are dead. . . .
(I wonder if the hair is golden yet about your head.)