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.