I shall still be remembered by what I have done.
Needs there the praise of the love-written record,
The name and the epitaph graved on the stone?
The things we have lived for—let them be our story—
We ourselves but remembered by what we have done.
I need not be missed if another succeed me,
To reap down the fields which in spring I have sown;
He who plowed and who sowed is not missed by the reaper,
He is only remembered by what he has done.
Not myself, but the truth that in life I have spoken,