I
I shall rot here, with those whom in their day You never knew, And alien ones who, ere they chilled to clay, Met not my view, Will in your distant grave-place ever neighbour you.
II
No shade of pinnacle or tree or tower, While earth endures, Will fall on my mound and within the hour Steal on to yours;
One robin never haunt our two green covertures.
III
Some organ may resound on Sunday noons By where you lie, Some other thrill the panes with other tunes Where moulder I;
No selfsame chords compose our common lullaby.
IV
The simply-cut memorial at my head Perhaps may take A Gothic form, and that above your bed Be Greek in make;
No linking symbol show thereon for our tale's sake.
V
And in the monotonous moils of strained, hard-run Humanity, The eternal tie which binds us twain in one No eye will see Stretching across the miles that sever you from me.
