IF I had thought thou couldst have died,     I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side,     That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had past     The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last,     And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,     And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook,     That I must look in vain. But when I speak—thou dost not say     What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may,     Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,     All cold and all serene— I still might press thy silent heart,     And where thy smiles have been. While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,     Thou seemest still mine own; But there—I lay thee in thy grave,     And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,     Thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart     In thinking too of thee: Yet there was round thee such a dawn     Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn,     And never can restore!