My every thought will be of thee,
Though I may be forgot.
If we should meet in after years,
Thou’lt find that I am changed;
My eyes grow dim, my cheeks grow pale,
But not my faith estrang’d:
From mem’ry’s page the hand of death,
Alone thy name shall blot,
Forget, forsake me, if thou wilt,
Thou’lt never be forgot.