Sorrow, to you, the mellow praise, the funeral wreath, are due.
And yet, my friend,
When love and joy are strong,
Your terrible visage from my sight I rend
With glances to blue heaven. Hovering along,
By mine your shadow led,
“Away!” I shriek, “nor dare to work my new-sprung mercies wrong!”
Still, you are near:
Who can your care withstand?
When deep eternity shall look most clear,