Life in Death. Rückert. I. To flourish ever young, The Poet’s song has sung, Is Life’s most precious dower. Wouldst thou try its truth, Thou must die in youth, Perish in thy flower ; Fresh and blooming go To thy rest below, From Fortune’s icy shower Sheltered in the grave, Where no billows rave, Where no tempests lower. II. So lives in me to-day One long passed away, In her beauty’s pride ; Yet doth she endure, Floating there secure, On Time’s devouring tide : My aged blood is chill, Her young splendours still Quick and warm abide : She is fairer far Than breathing beauties are, Whom, through years of care, In my heart I hide, With the Myrtle wreath upon her shining hair, That crowns a coffined Bride. W. D. S.