When sweet lovers pause and wonder
Who am I that lie thereunder,
Hidden from the moon?

This my personal death?--
That lungs be failing
To inhale the breath
Others are exhaling?
This my subtle spirit's end?--
Ah, when the thawed winter splashes
Over these chance dust and ashes,
Weep not me, my friend!

Me, by no means dead
In that hour, but surely
When this book, unread,
Rots to earth obscurely,
And no more to any breast,
Close against the clamorous swelling
Of the thing there is no telling,
Are these pages pressed!

When this book is mould,
And a book of many
Waiting to be sold
For a casual penny,
In a little open case,
In a street unclean and cluttered,
Where a heavy mud is spattered
From the passing drays,