Ludwig Uhland (1787–1862)

IN the quiet convent garden

A pallid maiden dreamed.

The moon was dim above—

On drooping lashes gleamed

A tear of tender love.

He is dead, my faithful lover—

What blessedness for me!

Now it is right to love:

An angel he will be,

And angels I may love.

She walked with steps unsteady

To mother Mary’s shrine;

The image, wondrous mild,

Looked in the pale moonshine

Upon the undefiled.

She sank down, gazing upward,

In heavenly peace reposed,

Until her eyelids frail

In gentle death were closed;

Down fell the long, black veil.