by Poe's Rose
And when I still love you,
(Eighty, ninety?) years from now,
And when the gray and white has rested
Long upon my brow,
And all my poor mind can remember
Is happy thoughts of you,
And all my weak heart can yearn for
Is that you should love me too,
Will then you turn and kiss my cheek,
As if I were once more young?
Or leave me to my death, alone,
Like a bright bead never strung?