Elegy
When rivulets dry and flowers melt
And gardens ne'er would be,
The pope around the churchyard
Could never pray for thee!
When color and form were but a mist
And shadow but the whole,
We may as well turn round again
From all our wayward thrall.
While life, the envy in itself,
Was but the empty shell,
The earth must turn, while he the elf
Must here thus bare its hell!
And gardens ne'er would be,
The pope around the churchyard
Could never pray for thee!
When color and form were but a mist
And shadow but the whole,
We may as well turn round again
From all our wayward thrall.
While life, the envy in itself,
Was but the empty shell,
The earth must turn, while he the elf
Must here thus bare its hell!
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