And now I feel, as well I may, 15
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!
If thou would’st stay, e’en as thou art,
All cold, and all serene—
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been! 20
While e’en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there—I lay thee in thy grave,
And I am now alone!