From "The Constant Nymph", "Tomorrow", by Erich Korngold

When you are gone,
the birds will stop their singing;
When you are dead,
no sun will ever rise.

No more, no more
the joyful upspringing
shall bless these eyes,
shall bless these eyes.

When you are in your grave,
the flowers blowing
shall hang their heads
and sicken in their grove.

Beauty will fade
and wither at your going,
oh my own love,
oh my own love.

Say not so!
Another love will cheer you.
The sun will rise
as bright tomorrow morn.

The birds will sing,
though I no longer near you
must lie forlorn,
lie forlorn.

When I am in my grave,
the flowers blowing
shall make you garlands
twenty times as sweet.

Beauty will live
Ah though I must sleep
unknowing beneath your feet,
though I must sleep beneath your feet.