And time has no power to rob me
Though it bear my youth away;
For, framed like thee in choicest gold
Is the face of my love which can not grow old.
Thy lilies were clasped in her fingers—
Not whiter the lilies than they—
When under thy skies which were weeping
They laid my darling away.
There I planted a delicate rose-tree,
Which thy coming calls to bloom,