When o’er you night’s oblivion darkens,
Then let oblivion shadow me.
No verse will soften Hades’ sadness,
No verse can break on Eden’s gladness,
’Tis all parade and shifting glare:—
A stream, where scattered trees are growing,
A secret tear, in silence flowing,
No monument as these so fair.
Such slumber here, their memory flashes
Across my thoughts.—Hail, sister, hail!