Thy Songs And Mine

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 Love’s 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 half unsaid. Take thou the harp ere yet it be unstrung-- Wake thou the lyre ere yet its chords be cold-- Sing thou my songs, and thine, when I am dead!