In twenty years—in fifty years—
Who will remember you kissed me once,
Who will be grieved for our tears?
The locust tree will have grown taller,
The old walks will be covered with grass,
And past our quiet graves go straying
A youth with his arm round his lass.
And the bee that shall suck your grave flowers—
Anemone, stock, columbine,
May pause in his swift homing journey