You have died and know it not,
Extinguished is the light of your eyes,
Your small rosy mouth has turned pale,
And you are dead -- my dead child.

On a terrible summer night
I brought you to the grave myself;
Nightingales sang a dirge,
The stars departed along with the body.

The procession led past the forest,
Where echoes of the litany resounded;
The pines, shrouded in cloaks of mourning,
Murmured prayers for the dead.

It passed the pond in the pasture,
Where elves danced within a ring;
They suddenly stopped and seemed
To stare at us with sympathetic expressions.

And when we arrived at your grave,
The moon descended from heaven.
He spoke the eulogy. There was weeping and lamenting
And, in the distance, bells tolled.