"Whom the gods love die young," they will say;
Though they should think it, they will not say so:
"Whom the world pierces with thorns pass away,
Grieving, yet asking and longing to go!"
No, when they see how divine my repose is,
They'll forget that my-life-path is not over roses;
And they'll whisper together, with hands full of flowers,
How always I loved them to wear on my breast;
And strewing them over my bosom in showers,
With hands shaken by sobs, leave me softly to rest.