When in the ultimate embrace
Our blown dust mingles in the wind,
And others wander in the place
Where we made merry;
When in the dance of spring we spend
Our ashen powers with the gale,
What will these tears and joys avail,
The winged kiss, the laughing face,
Where we make merry?
Save that with everlasting grace
Thy soul shall linger in this place,
And haunt with music, or else be
A lyric in the memory.