'Twas not a death of ceaseless breathing,
But rather one of love deceiving,
From which the soul did die.
And by doing so, then guided pleasure,
To a grave no one could measure,
Beneath a weary sky.
Without a stake even for its leaving,
Or further thought of its conceiving,
It quietly held its own,
Appearing no worse for the heaving
Sighing less heavily while bereaving,
A spot no tree had grown.