Amidst the cemetery grows a tree,
Abask in freedom's fullest sun:
Not placed as mourning letters run,
Along a humble stone for all to see.
Be it by summer or by winter sky,
To sit here comes a clear-voiced bird;
So sad its song of faithful word,
For lo! This tree and bird are you and I.
Bright memory are you, I absent fog,
Which passing time recounts so as to log ...
Ah, at your knees if but to live again!
Ah, life again! But what, my beauty, then?
Cold conquest by oblivion's my part ...
At least tell: do I live on in your heart?