Oh, bitter! that the lips on which we pour
Love's fondest kisses, feel the touch no more;
Oh, lonely! that the voice on which we call
In agony, breaks not its silent thrall;
Oh, fearful! that the eyes in which we gaze
With desperate hope through their thick filmy haze,
Return no living look to bless our sight!
Oh, God! that it were granted that one might
But once behold the secret of the grave,—
That but one voice from the all-shrouding cave