WHEN the nights are so cold—belovèd,

And thy grave not with my tears wet,

Then will I visit thee most—oh, my belovèd,

In the rapture of regret.

When the days are all haze and mist, belovèd—

In the lingering leaf-falling sunset,

I will twine flowers round thy tomb—oh my belovèd,

In the luxury of regret.