Her cheek upon her withered hand,
Said she to her soul,
That her time, her end was almost near,
Would not her soul be lonely?
She clasped in her hand,
Her heart, the heart of her gentle soul,
Oh, her beloved,
Was going to be separated from her,
Was not that going to be painful?
And as she closed her eyes, she remembered,
The thousand times she had listened to her will, not her soul,
And then with a much troubled mind,
She went to heaven, taking her memories with her,
While her soul floated about in dark solitude. . . .