Thou wilt sit here, perchance, where we recline
Beneath the shade of vines which I have reared
And the sweet flower-scents will go floating by,
Blent with all mournful memories of the past.
Yet do not weep, but think of me as one
Whose heart was like the restless moaning wave,
Which frets itself to peace—whose love was all
Too deep for bliss on earth, and who above
Will watch with anxious ministry thy steps.
I have had dreams—bright, holy dreams—dear friend.