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!