Let Us Clear A Little Space, And Make Love A Burial Place. He Is Dead, Dear, As You See, And He Wearies You And Me, Growing Heavier, Day By Day, Let Us Bury Him, I Say. Wings Of Dead White Butterflies, These Shall Shroud Him, As He Lies In His Casket Rich And Rare, Made Of Finest Maiden-Hair. With The Pollen Of The Rose Let Us His White Eye-Lids Close. Put The Rose Thorn In His Hand, Shorn Of Leaves - You Understand. Let Some Holy Water Fall On His Dead Face, Tears Of Gall - As We Kneel By Him And Say, "Dreams To Dreams," And Turn Away. Those Grave Diggers, Doubt, Distrust, They Will Lower Him To The Dust. Let Us Part Here With A Kiss, You Go That Way, I Go This. Since We Buried Love To-Day We Will Walk A Separate Way.