Were the castles fair, that he built that day,
Ere the Fever came in its cloak of grey?
Does he rest well there, by his kopi hill,
Now the tale of his life is told?
Does a fear disturb his dreaming still,
Or a sigh strike through the mould?
Does a mother weep, or a sweetheart wait,
Where they said “Good-bye,” at the old farm gate?
However it be, by the wind-swept hills
Of leisure he nothing lacks;