Music makes for beauty moan,
For the lovely Spring o'erthrown.
For the Capeweed glory set,
And the mouldered violet.
Sea to shore sigh uttereth,
And the she-oak answereth.

Gone the Daffodil of morn,
Noon's deep purple Rose is torn,
And too frail thy petals be,
Evening's red Anemone.
“I am worn by minstrel Death.”
Night's Black Poppy whispereth.

Ah, what haunted citadel,
Keeps the maid I love so well?
Lustrous Lonely bluebell eyes,
Voice whose tones are lullabies.
“Love is but a name of Death,”
Unto me the pine-tree saith.

Fades the music like a sigh,
Droops as earthward lark from sky;
Yet o'er vale and piny hill,
One sweet voice is whispering still.
“Oft I wear the mask of Death,
None my love disquieteth.”