Silence! The hills stopp'd breathin'
when she rolled back her eyes.
Silence! I can't stand any sound,
I don't want noisy fools around.
Iron bells keepings time in a leaden,
heavy rhyme.
Silence! The words lose their meanin'
and cry is narrowed like a screamin'
she's avoided, she's deceived
smooth, round breast was full of pride,
all the love she received don't change
her inside.

How shall the burial rite be read?
How the requiem for the lovelies dead?
For the witch that never die so young?
How shall all solemn song be song?
My God!
There are some open fanes!
There are some gaping graves,
but not all gold that shines is like
my sleeping bride!
Oh no!

At midnight in the month of June we stand
beneath the mystic moon,
her silver sisters, a wizard crowd,
flies about her spinning around.
They tell me: "don't cry dear,
she doesn't believe in tears"
I pray to God that she may lay
while pale sheeted ghosts go by,
as sleep is lasting, so be deep,
soft may worms about her creep,
an opiate smell sweet and dim yet
exhales from her vaxen limbs.

Dying swan in a northern lake
sings its death song sweet and clear,
Iris nods on the grave, lily lolls upon the wave,
wrapping fog about its breast ruin
moulders into the rest,
where all beauty no more shine
there lay Irene, that's so divine.

There's some sepulchre remote,
alone against whose portal she had thrown
in the childhood many an idle stone,
some tombs from out whose sounding door...
poor child!
She never shall force more
an echo, thrilling to think
it was the dusty dead who groaned within.

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