But not for me.
The birds will sing, among the vales and highlands,
Sweet as they sang in the glad days of yore,
And lilies fair will circle yonder islands
For me no more.
For me no more the sparkle of the river,
Where droop the willows, fairest of the fair;
For me no more the joys a bounteous Giver
Sends everywhere.
But scatter o'er my grave the buds and flowers—