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Her death, the dawn, the blushing hour,
That opes the gate of heaven.
That opes the gate of heaven.
A single tress! how slight a thing
To sway such magic art,
And bid each soft remembrance spring
Like blossoms in the heart!
It leads me back to days of old,
To her I loved so long,
Whose locks outshone pellucid gold,
Whose lips o'erflowed with song.
To sway such magic art,
And bid each soft remembrance spring
Like blossoms in the heart!
It leads me back to days of old,
To her I loved so long,
Whose locks outshone pellucid gold,
Whose lips o'erflowed with song.
Since then I've heard a thousand lays
From lips as sweet as hers,
Yet when I strove to give them praise,
I only gave them tears;
I could not bear, amid the throng
Where jest and laughter rung,
To hear another sing the song,
That trembled on her tongue.
From lips as sweet as hers,
Yet when I strove to give them praise,
I only gave them tears;
I could not bear, amid the throng
Where jest and laughter rung,
To hear another sing the song,
That trembled on her tongue.
A single shining tress of hair
To bid such memories start!
But tears are on its lustre—there
I lay it on my heart:
O! when in Death's cold arms I sink,
Who then, with gentle care,
Will keep for me a dark-brown link—
A ringlet of my hair?
To bid such memories start!
But tears are on its lustre—there
I lay it on my heart:
O! when in Death's cold arms I sink,
Who then, with gentle care,
Will keep for me a dark-brown link—
A ringlet of my hair?
