Waking or asleep, thou of death must deem 

Things more true and deep than we mortals dream 

We look before and after and pine for what's not 

Our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught 



Will thou now forget the happy hours 

Which we buried in love's, in love's sweet bowers 

Heaping over their corpses so cold 

Blossoms and leaves instead of the mold? 



Forget the dead and the past? Oh yet, 

There are ghosts that may take revenge for it, 

Memories that make the cold heart a tomb 

Regrets which glide through the spirit's gloom,