BY his side, whose days are past,
 Lay bow and quiver!
And his eyes that stare aghast
 Close, with a shiver.
God nor man from Death, at last,
 Love may deliver. 
Though?of old?we vowed, my dear,
 Death should not take him;
Mourn not thou that we must here
 Coldly forsake him;
Shed above his grave no tear?
 Tears will not wake him. 

Cupid lieth cold and dead?
 Ended his flying,
Pale his lips, once rosy-red,
 Swift was his dying.
Place a stone above his head,
 Turn away, sighing.