Normale Version: WHEN I AM DEAD.
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WHEN I am dead and buried underground,
And your dear eyes still greet the shining day,
Will you remember—"Thus she used to say—
And thus, and thus, her low voice used to sound"?
Will memory wander like a ghost around
The well-known paths—tread the accustomed way;
Or will you pluck fresh blossoms of the May,
And waste no rose upon my burial mound?
I would not have your life to sorrow wed—
Your joyous youth grief-stricken for my sake;—
Though black-winged Care her home with you should make,
Yet vain would be the scalding tears you shed;
And though your heart for love of me should break,
How could I hear, or heed, if I were dead?