Lamp of my life, the lips of Death Hath blown thee out with their sudden breath； Naught¹ 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； Nought² shall restore thy glory fled . . . Shall the blossom live when the tree is dead？

    Life of my life, Death's bitter sword Hath severed³ us like a broken word, Rent us in twain who are but one . . Shall the flesh survive when the soul is gone？