Tomorrow

The Mourner:

When you are gone,

the birds will stop their singing,

When you are dead,

no sun will ever rise.

No more, no more

the joyful days upspringing

shall bless these eyes.

When you are in your grave,

the flowers blowing

shall hang their heads

and sicken in their grove.

Beauty will fade

and wither at your going,

oh my own love.

The Dying One:

Ah, say not so,

another love will cheer you.

The sun will shine

as bright tomorrow morn.

The birds will sing,

though I no longer near you

must lie forlorn.

When I am in my grave,

the flowers blowing

shall make you garlands

twenty times as sweet.

Beauty will live,

though I must sleep

unknowing beneath thy feet.