And at thy pale and quivering lip shall gleam no sign of mirth,
For grief shall sit upon thy brow, in sad, unseemly guise,
And tears, e’en though thou art a man, shall well up to thine eyes.
For each young plant, each speaking flower, and old familiar place
Will seem to gaze with sadness, up to thine averted face;
And when, perchance, another hand my own sweet chords shall sweep,
Thou’lt list to those remembered tones, and turn aside and weep!
And when another’s thoughtless voice, shall breathe to thee my name,
And whisper that the sound was linked with an undying fame,
No pride shall mantle o’er thy cheek, nor darkle in thine eye,