Weep him dead and mourn as you may,
⁠Me, I sing as I must:
Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble
⁠What would have sunk to dust!

Blessed be Death, that took my love
⁠And buried him in the sea,
Where never a lie nor a bitter word
⁠Will out of his mouth at me.

This I have to hold to my heart,
⁠This to take by the hand:
Sweet we were for a summer month
⁠As the sun on the dry white sand;

Mild we were for a summer month
⁠As the wind from over the weirs.
And blessed be Death, that hushed with salt
⁠The harsh and slovenly years!

Who builds her a house with love for timber
⁠Builds her a house of foam.
And I’d rather be bride to a lad gone down
⁠Than widow to one safe home.