When I have passed away and am forgotten, And no one living can recall my face,
When under alien sod my bones lie rotten With not a tree or stone to mark the place;
Perchance a pensive youth, with passion burning, For olden verse that smacks of love and wine,
The musty pages of old volumes turning, May light upon a little song of mine,
And he may softly hum the tune and wonder Who wrote the verses in the long ago;
Or he may sit him down awhile to ponder Upon the simple words that touch him so.
