Hope new born one pleasant morn Died at even; Hope dead lives nevermore. No, not in heaven.
If his shroud were but a cloud To weep itself away; Or were he buried underground To sprout some day! But dead and gone is dead and gone Vainly wept upon.
Nought we place above his face To mark the spot, But it shows a barren place In our lot. Hope has birth no more on earth Morn or even; Hope dead lives nevermore, No, not in heaven.