Sing thou my songs for me when I am dead! Soul of my soul, some day thou wilt awake To see the morning on the hilltops break. And the far summits flame with rosy red. But I shall wake not, though above my head Armies should thunder: nor for Lovers sweet sake. Though he the tenderest pilgrimage should make Where I am lying in my grassy bed. I shall be silent, with my song half sung: I shall be dumb, with half the story told: I shall be mute leaving the best unsaid.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)
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