• Cupid has struck,
    his arrows are flung.
    They hit dead their mark,
    I must must hold my tongue.

    "Am I finally dead?"
    I say with a fright.
    For here stands an angel
    Oh! what a sight.

    The heavens have parted,
    the sky shines a blue.
    And here stands her beauty,
    a benevolent hue!

    I know I am dead,
    she will never be mine.
    I feel i'm not worthy
    for she is too fine.

    The sorrowed poet