Oh think not with love's soft token,

Or music my heart to thrill—

For its strings—its strings are broken,

And the chords would fain be still!

Oh think not to waken the measure

Of joy on a ruined lute—

Think not to waken pleasure,

Where grief sits mourning and mute.

The pearls that gleam in the billow,

But darken the gloom of the deep—

And laughter plants the pillow

With thorns, where sorrow would sleep.

The gems that gleam on the finger

Of her who is sleeping and cold,

But wring the hearts that linger.

And dream of the love they told.

My bosom is but a grave,

My breast a voiceless choir—

Speak not to the echoless cave,

Touch not the broken lyre!