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!