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!