• Alone, she's clothed in black.
    This pale maiden with a red rose.
    She lies in a narrow house,
    And her lips are forever closed.

    The sky is grey and weeps,
    For this lost and lonely girl,
    Whose eyes, so clear and bright,
    Glisten sadly at the world.

    But her unbeating heart still feels,
    And her emotions rain down her face.
    The pale maiden speaks no words,
    But says more than words could say.

    Who was she, to merit such a epitaph?
    Who was this maiden, clothed in black?
    Be she an angel, bright and pure?
    Or are angels ever as they seem,
    Is she as real, or dark as a dream?

    The maiden cries her silent tears,
    And thinks away the lonely years.
    Dead is not the same as gone,
    And gone will never be like dead.

    Her face is pale as fallen snow,
    Her lips a pale-set plum,
    Her eyes so clear and mirror-like,
    Reflect her bright, red rose.

    Maiden clothed in black,
    Your sorrow, your joy shall stay.
    For as you lie in a narrow house,
    Your memory remains.