Ye stars of heaven, into my spirit fall,
There live, and hear your hapless lover call!
To my pale brow the springtime brings no rose.
No smile for me in this world’s sunbeams glows.
Night is my coffin, stars for lights flame round.
The moon all weeping seeks my funeral mound.
There are some men for whom no mourners sigh—
It was for them He placed that moon on high;
And he that to death’s portals draweth near
First life would have—and then a mourner’s tear.