The increasing light, the slowly opening buds,
The almond blooms, the trees in vernal dress
Are like the silver crown upon my head:
A prophecy of heaven’s summer time.
Yes, when I die, it shall be springtime then
Of my great immortality.
When I am gone, let men say, He was always young;
Not even Sorrow, with his ruthless plow;
Nor base ingratitude, nor brothers false,
Nor slander’s venomed tooth, nor poverty,