Dead love, by treason slain, lies stark,

White as a dead stark-stricken dove:

None that pass by him pause to mark

Dead love.

His heart, that strained and yearned and strove

As toward the sundawn strives the lark,

Is cold as all the old joy thereof.

Dead men, re-arisen from dust, may hark

When rings the trumpet blown above:

It will not raise from out the dark

Dead love.