My own sweet Love, if thou in the grave

My own sweet Love, if thou in the grave,
The darksome grave, wilt be,
Then will I go down by the side, and crave
Love-room for thee and me.

I kiss and caress and press thee wild,
Thou still, thou cold, thou white!
I wail, I tremble, and weeping mild,
Turn to a corpse at the right.

The Dead stand up, the midnight calls,
They dance in airy swarms —
We two keep still where the grave-shade falls,
And I lie on in thine arms.

The Dead stand up, the Judgment-day
Bids such to weal or woe —
But nought shall trouble us where we stay
Embraced and embracing below.