The dove of my bosom lies bleeding,
The hopes I once cherished are fled,
I gaze on their ruins unheeding,
Earth's brightest is low with the dead.
The eye that with rapture was beaming,
Is clouded in silence and gloom,
And those locks that like sunlight were gleaming,
Are damp with the dews of the tomb.
The smile that I sought as a treasure,
Is gone with the being who gave
To this bosom its throbbings of pleasure,
And my heart is with her in the grave.
* * * * *
Above her the wild flowers are growing,
They were nursed by the thoughts of her love,
They are wet by the tears that are flowing,
And shall flow, till I greet her above.