Classic Poem

When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping,
Life's fever o'er,
Will there for me be any bright eye weeping
That I'm no more?
Will there be any heart still memory keeping
Of heretofore?

When the great winds through leafless forests rushing
Sad music make;
When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing,
Like full hearts break, —
Will there then one, whose heart despair is crushing,
Mourn for my sake?

When the bright sun upon that spot is shining,
With purest ray,
And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms twining,
Burst through that clay, —
Will there be one still on that spot repining
Lost hopes all day?

When no star twinkles with its eye of glory
On that low mound,
And wintry storms have, with their ruins hoary,
Its loneness crowned, —
Will there be then one, versed in misery's story,
Pacing it round?

It may be so, — but this is selfish sorrow
To ask such meed, —
A weakness and a wickedness to borrow,
From hearts that bleed,
The wailings of to-day for what to-morrow
Shall never need.

Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling,
Thou gentle heart;
And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling,
Let no tear start:
It were in vain, — for Time hath long been knelling, —
" Sad one, depart! "