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And all thy early fav'rite flow'rs,
Which tell of summer's coming hours,
Now bloom in mockery
Of my sad bosom's bitter pain;
Thou ne'er wilt see those flow'rs again.
Which tell of summer's coming hours,
Now bloom in mockery
Of my sad bosom's bitter pain;
Thou ne'er wilt see those flow'rs again.
For o'er thy cold and darksome tomb,
In vain May's sun will shine;
Thou feel'st it not—nor the vault's gloom;
Then why should I repine?
For in thy calm and dreamless sleep,
No thought for me can make thee weep,
For perfect bliss is thine.
Nor earthly pain, or Joy, or woe,
Can thy free'd spirit ever know.
In vain May's sun will shine;
Thou feel'st it not—nor the vault's gloom;
Then why should I repine?
For in thy calm and dreamless sleep,
No thought for me can make thee weep,
For perfect bliss is thine.
Nor earthly pain, or Joy, or woe,
Can thy free'd spirit ever know.
But if the spirits of the blest,
From yonder heav'nly sphere,
From yonder heav'nly sphere,
