And her love he went to the north,
And far to the south went he,
But still he heard her distant voice
Call, weeping so bitterly.

He could not rest in the daytime,
He could not sleep in the night,
Hastened back to the old road,
With the trysting-place in sight.

What first he heard was his love's name,
And keening both loud and long;
What first he saw was his love's face
At the head of a mourning throng.

And white she was as the dead are,
And never a move made she,
But passed him by on her black pall,
Still sleeping so peacefully.

And cold she was as the dead are,
And never a word she spake,
When they said, "Unholy is her grave,
Since she her life did take."

Silent she was, as the dead are,
And never a cry she made
When there came, more sad than the keening,
The ring of a digging spade.