I look in her face and say,
“Sing as you used to sing
About Love's blossoming”;
But she hints not Yea or Nay.
“Sing, then, that Love's a pain,
If, Dear, you think it so,
Whether it be or no;”
But dumb her lips remain.
I go to a far-off room,
A faint song ghosts my ear;
Which song I cannot hear,
But it seems to come from a tomb.