Nay—call me not thy rose—thine own sweet flower,
For oh, my soul to thy wild words is mute!
Leave me my gift of song—my glorious dower—
My hand unchanged, and free to sweep the lute.
Thus, when within the tomb thy memory slumbers,
Mine, mine will tie of those immortal names
Sung by the poet in undying numbers:
Call me not thine—I am the world's and fame's!
Were it not blissful, when from earth we sever,
To know that we shall leave, with bard and sage,