Than circles round this world of ours;
I dare not think that thou shouldst die,
Unto my soul, like summer showers
To thirsty leaves thou art,—like May
To the slow-budding woodbine bowers.
Oh no! thou canst pass away.
No hand shall strew thy bier with flowers!
Those eyes, as fair as Eve’s, when they,
Untearful yet, were raised to pray,
Fronting the mellow sunset glow