And the heart grows burden’d with tender thought,
Then let it be!
When will ye think of me, kind friends?
When will ye think of me?—
When the rose of the rich midsummer-time
Is fill’d with the hues of its glorious prime—
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,
From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread—
Then let it be!
When will ye think of me, sweet friends?