So Love Is Dead, The Love We Knew Of Old! And In The Sorrow Of Our Hearts' Hushed Halls A Lute Lies Broken And A Flower Falls; Love'S House Stands Empty And His Hearth Lies Cold. Lone In Dim Places, Where Sweet Vows Were Told, In Walks Grown Desolate, By Ruined Walls Beauty Decays; And On Their Pedestals Dreams Crumble And Th' Immortal Gods Are Mold. Music Is Slain Or Sleeps; One Voice Alone, One Voice Awakes, And Like A Wandering Ghost Haunts All The Echoing Chambers Of The Past The Voice Of Memory, That Stills To Stone The Soul That Hears; The Mind, That, Utterly Lost, Before Its Beautiful Presence Stands Aghast.