What a lonely little corpse our love is lying,
Very cold, and very still, and very-drear !
Yet he throbbed with passion there was no denying,
And we thought his every word divinely dear!
Have we both grown old, that neither sheds a tear?
Have our hearts grown dry perchance with too much sighing?
We are standing by the bed,
At the foot and at the head,
Very solemnly! ―― What, dearest, are you crying?
