Love conquers Death by night and day,
Beguiles him long of his destined prey;
⁠And when, at last, that seems to perish
⁠Which he hath striven still to cherish,
Love plucks the soul from the fallen clay.

Death is not master, but Love's slave:
He smites the timid and the brave;
⁠Yet as he fares, with sweet low laughter,
⁠Love, the sower, follows after,
Scattering seed in each new-made grave!