‘The grave hath won thee; I shall hear the gush
Of music and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;
But thou no more with thy sweet voice shalt come
To meet me, Absalom!
‘And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart
Like a bruised reed is waiting to be broken;
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Long for thine ear to catch its dying token!