Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow
Pale are the lips of delicate mould,—
Somebody’s darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful, blue-veined brow
Brush all the wandering waves of gold,
Cross his hands on his bosom now,