When I Am Dead

When I am dead and buried underground,
And your dear eyes still greet the shining day,
Will you remember — " Thus she used to say —
And thus, and thus, her low voice used to sound " ?
Will memory wander like a ghost around
The well-known paths — tread the accustomed way;
Or will you pluck fresh blossoms of the May,
And waste no rose upon my burial mound?

I would not have your life to sorrow wed —
Your joyous youth grief-stricken for my sake; —
Though black-winged Care her home with you should make,
Yet vain would be the scalding tears you shed;
And though your heart for love of me should break,
How could I hear, or heed, if I were dead?
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