There’s some one still to love me.
Oh, softly sigh; for I hear the sound
And grieve me o’er your sorrow;
But leave a kiss in the myrtle mound—
I’ll give it back to-morrow.
Whisper me, love, as in moments fled,
While I dream your hand mine taketh;
For the stone speaks false that says, “She’s dead;”
I sleep, but my heart awaketh.