Then let it be!
When will you think of me, sweet Grace?
When will you think of me?
When the rose of the rich midsummer time
Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime,
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,
From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread;
Then let it be!
Thus let my memory be with you, Grace—
Thus ever think of me!