Chapter II

Though the fountain cease to play,
Dew must glitter near the brink,
Though the weary mind decay,
As of old it thought so must it think.
Leave alone the darkling eyes
Fixed upon the moving skies,
Cross the hands upon the bosom, there to rise
To the throb of the faith not spoken.

REMEMBER

You come not, as aforetime, to the headstone every
day,
And I, who died, I do not chide because, my friend,
you play;
Only, in playing, think of him who once was kind and
dear,
And, if you see a beauteous thing, just say, he is not
here.