While at his frozen feet a kitten plays.
Dead! Can it be, with children’s shouts without?
So still he sits. How painful is the light,
And deeper glows the crimson on his face,
The sun has set, Goodnight.
OH! ’TIS SWEET TO LIVE.
The funeral march, it suiteth not my mood,
Its Stygian tones are those on which men brood.
Beyond its solemn measure lies the tomb,