Punch, with the People, genially rejoiced
In that Betrothal Wreath;[1]
And now relentless Death
Silences all the joy our hopes had voiced.
The Shadow glides between;
The garland's vernal green
Shrivels to greyness in its spectral hand.
Joy-bells are muffled, mute,
Hushed is the bridal lute,
And general grief darkens across the land.