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 shall 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,

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!

It were so sweet, amid death’s gathering gloom,

To see thee, Absalom!