TWO loves had I. Now both are dead,
And both are marked by tombstones white.
The one stands in the churchyard near,
The other hid from mortal sight.
The name on one all men may read,
And learn who lies beneath the stone;
The other name is written where
No eyes can read it but my own.
On one I plant a living flower,
And cherish it with loving hands;
I shun the single withered leaf
That tells me where the other stands.
To that white tombstone on the hill
In summer days I often go;
From this white stone that nearer lies
I turn me with unuttered woe.
O God, I pray, if love must die,
And make no more of life a part,
Let witness be where all can see,
And not within a living heart.