Is keeping her safely for thee,
And myriads of bright and holy ones
Are joining her minstrelsy?
And the flower pluck’d from thy darling’s grave
Will never again revive,
But the blossom torn from thy throbbing breast
Shall ever in beauty live.
And the hour is coming when thou, frail man,
Shalt lay thee down and die;
And who can tell but thy sainted love