Love, strong as Death, is dead. Come, let us make his bed Among the dying flowers: A green turf at his head; And a stone at his feet, Whereon we may sit In the quiet evening hours.
He was born in the Spring, And died before the harvesting: On the last warm summer day He left us; he would not stay For Autumn twilight cold and grey. Sit we by his grave, and sing He is gone away.
To few chords and sad and low Sing we so: Be our eyes fixed on the grass Shadow-veiled as the years pass While we think of all that was In the long ago.