In minor keys of my people's woe,
But my songs will pass away.
To-morrow hears them not—
To-morrow belongs to fame—
My songs, like the birds', will be forgot,
And forgotten shall be my name.
But a touch of prophecy adds the thought:
And yet who knows? Betimes
The grandest songs depart,
While the gentle, humble, and low-toned rhymes