When we shall be dust in the churchyard
—In twenty years—in fifty years—
Who will remember you kissed me once,
Who will be grieved for our tears?

The locust-tree will have grown taller,
The old walks will be hidden with grass,
And past our quiet graves may go straying
A youth with an arm round his lass.

And the bee that shall suck your grave-flowers,
—Meadow-sweet, flag, columbine—
May pause in his swift journey
To taste of the honey from mine.