Lamp of my life, the lips of Death Hath blown thee out with their sudden breath; Naught shall revive thy vanished spark . . . Love, must I dwell in the living dark?
Tree of my life, Death's cruel foot Hath crushed thee down to thy hidden root; Nought shall restore thy glory fled . . . Shall the blossom live when the tree is dead?
Life of my life, Death's bitter sword Hath severed us like a broken word, Rent us in twain who are but one . . Shall the flesh survive when the soul is gone?
