When thou art dead the birds will stop their singing,
When thou are cold no sun will ever rise,
No more, no more the joyful days, upspringing,
Shall bless these eyes.
When thou art in the grave the flowers blowing
Shall hang their heads and sicken in the grave,
Beauty will fade and wihher at thy going,
My only love.

Ah say not so! another love will cheer thee,
The sun will rise as bright to-morrow morn,
The birds will sing though I no longer near the
Must lie forlorn.

When I am in my grave the flowers blowing
Shall make the garlands twenty times as sweet,
Beauty will live, though I must sleep unknowing
Beneath my feet.