Death Shall Grieve No More With Thee

Oh my beloved, methinks that thy heart is like o’ that wither’d rose o’ autumn. My shadow doth kill thy own strength apart that I perceive thy thought hath neither bloom? Why let our great myth doth bring harm to thee? Walk on the path o’ life with such delight, which my soul doth plead that thou hear’st its plea; and in it thou see’st mine flickerin’ light. If that other love’s bright as noonday sun, why then, oh my beloved, thy heart’s sad? Mine memory, mine breath beweepth, but none; oft thou see’st my love for thee I once had. Thy sweetest love to me always doth live, let not thy heart, by my death, be deceiv’d!