Fold the hands, grown still and cold;
Lay ye by
The broken bow that shall feel his hold
Nevermore, while the seasons fly.
Draw the shroud above his eyes,
Love, that laughs an hour and dies.
Seek no more to entrance win
At his gate;
Silent now are the song and din,
Jest and dance, that were there of late.
Never more shall he arise,
Love, that laughs an hour and dies.
Listen not, for ye shall catch
Nevermore
The sound of his finger on the latch,
Nor see him stand in the open door;
Ne'er shall see, in any guise,
Love, that laughs an hour and dies.