the dead are in their silent graves,
and the dew is cold above,
and the living weep and sigh,
over dust that once was love.
once i only wept the dead,
but now the living cause my pain:
how couldst thou steal me from my tears,
to leave me to my tears again?
my mother rests beneath the sod —
her rest is calm and very deep:
i wish’d that she could see our loves —
but now i gladden in her sleep.
last night unbound my raven locks,
the morning saw them turned to gray,
once they were black and well beloved,
but thou art changed — and so are they!
the useless lock i gave thee once,
to gaze upon and think of me,
was ta’en with smiles — but this was torn
in sorrow that i send to thee!