If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had past The time would e’er be o’er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look, And think ’twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook That I must look in vain! But when I speak—thou dost not say, What thou ne’er left’st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary! thou art dead.

If thou wouldst stay, e’en as thou art, All cold and all serene— I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been! While e’en thy chill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own; But there I lay thee in thy grave— And I am now alone!

I do not think, where’er thou art, Thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, In thinking too of thee: Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne’er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore!