Alas! Alas! it is a tale so old— Alas! Alas! its pain is very new; It is a strange, hard thought for me and you— That warm limbs and strong hearts should ere wax cold, That ever Life should cease within our eyes, And silence for a season fall on each, And for a season, Loving ended be.— Ah! Sweet, what need to follow phantasies When Love's best fruit lies hard within our reach— And nought disturbs immutability— Trust me—when weak the heart and faint the hand, And Death, the master, little tarrieth— Then, through Death's own blow shall we understand, How Love is stronger than all earthly Death.