But I miss the soft clasp of your hand
And your breath warm on my cheek,
And I still keep listnin’ for the words
You never more will speak.
’Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary,
I see the spire from here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest—