So, all will forget, what to think of mere pain,
That the heart now asleep in this solemn repose,
Had contended with tempests of sorrow in vain,
And gone down in the strife at the feet of its foes:
They will choose to be mute when a deed I have done,
Or a word I have spoke I can no more atone;
They'll remember I loved them, was faithful and true;
They'll not say what a wild will abode in my breast;
But repeat to each other, as if they were new,
Old stories of what did the loved one at rest.