Love, strong as Death, is dead. br Come, let us make his bed br Among the dying flowers: br A green turf at his head; br And a stone at his feet, br Whereon we may sit br In the quiet evening hours. br br He was born in the Spring, br And died before the harvesting: br On the last warm summer day br He left us; he would not stay br For Autumn twilight cold and grey. br Sit we by his grave, and sing br He is gone away. br br To few chords and sad and low br Sing we so: br Be our eyes fixed on the grass br Shadow-veiled as the years pass br While we think of all that was br In the long ago.