Alma Strettell (1856–1939)

From the German of Heinrich Heine

DEAD thou art, and know’st not thou art dead,

Pale thy little mouth, once rosy red;

From thine eyes the light of life is gone,

Dead thou art, my own dead little one.

One weird summer night, when none might see,

To thy grave myself I carried thee;

Nightingales made plaint, and stars withal

Followed sadly in thy funeral.

Through the wood we passed, and ’mid the trees

Rang the echo of our litanies;

Lofty pines, in sable veils arrayed,

Muttered hoarsely, praying for the dead.

By the lake, where weeping willows grow,

Little elves were dancing to and fro;

But they stopped their sport as we passed by,

Gazing on us with a pitying eye.

When we reached thy grave, from out the sky

Came the moon, and made thine elegy;

Sobs and wailing echoed through the dell,

And afar there tolled a muffled bell.