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.