Astarte, Syrian sister,
        Your face is wet with tears;
    I think you know the secret
        One heart hath held for years!
        One heart hath held for years!
    But hide your hapless love,
And my sweet—my Syrian sister,
    Dead Love’s wild Nevermore!

    Ah, Helen Hope in heaven,
        My queen of long ago,
    I’ve swooned with adoration,
        But could not tell you so,
        Or dared not tell you so,
    My radiant queen of yore!
And you’ve passed away and left me
    Dead Love’s wild Nevermore!

    Astarte knoweth, darling,
        Of eyes that once did weep,
    What time entranced Passion
        Hath kissed your lips in sleep;
        Hath kissed your lips in sleep;
    But now those tears are o’er,
Gone, my saint, with many a moan to
    Dead Love’s wild Nevermore!

    If I am past all crying,
        What thoughts are maddening me,
    Of you, my darling, dying
        Upon the lone, wide sea,
        Upon the lone, wide sea,
    Ah! hush, ye shores, your roar,
That my soul may sleep, forgetting
    Dead Love’s wild Nevermore!