Dead, dead as a dreary day,
Dead like a flower on her deathbed,
The earth that will not bloom in may,
Altogether dead, with her in my head.
Altogether dead, for death is not partial,
Woe is me the death I face,
That I may lay eyes on an empty temple,
And see it crumble not with grace.
Dead like a lullaby grown too old,
Dead like a rose that would not bloom,
And a butterfly that would not fly,
Dead all the same, grace in gloom.
Fire eyes that will not shine,
Speak oh speak and tell once more,
The future’s story all too grand,
Mystic and powerful, shattered roar.