I seem to feel the fragrant breath
From bright, sweet lips, now pale and cold;
And forms come from the land of death
To cluster round me as of old.
And one most fair of that fair band
Smiles in my face with her pure eyes,
And the warm touch of her soft hand
Thrills me with long-gone ecstasies.
Art thou too fled? In my embrace
I clasp naught but the viewless air;
I gaze not in thy smiling face,
O where art thou, my sweet bride, where?
Dost call me with thy gentle tone?
And yet I can not follow thee!
I see thee not—I am alone;
O come again, sweet bride, to me.
O wail, my harp it was a dream—
A sweet deception, blessing me,
And passing as a cloud-rent beam
Of sun upon a troubled sea.
Thy trembling chords may sadly shake,
My heart-strings quiver like thine own,
And by their tension soon must break,
Then breathe for me thy pensive moan.
Not yet, not yet; O cease not yet,
Though sad the "burden of thy song;"
The restless spirit soon will set
That hath disturbed thy chords so long.
What strains! O never had thy strings
So much of ravishment as this;
I hear the rustling swoop of wings—
My bride! O Death, thou comest in bliss!
