And you drink deep of Disappointment’s brine,
You’ll wish for me.
Some day the wreath will wilt upon your head;
You’ll smell the bud and find a worm within.
Some day, my darling, when your friends have fled,
And strangers mock your frequent tears, ah! then
You’ll wish for me.
Some day, my darling, when Death’s dews fall cold
Upon your brow, you’ll gladly let me come—
When dreams present the shroud that must enfold