My son, thou wast my heart’s delight,
  Thy morn of life was gay and cheery;
That morn has rushed to sudden night,
  Thy father’s house is sad and dreary.

I held thee on my knee, my son!
  And kissed thee laughing, kissed thee weeping;
But ah!...

There shall be couches whence faint odours rise,
Divans like sepulchres, deep and profound;

Strange flowers that bloomed...