Should fickle hands in far-off days

No longer stroke thy hair,

And lips that once were proud to praise

Forget to call thee fair,

Sigh but my name, and though I be

Mute in the churchyard mould,

I will arise and come to thee,

And worship as of old.

And should I meet the wrinkled brow,

Or find the silver tress,

What were’t to me, it would be thou,

I could not love thee less.

‘Gainst love time wages bootless strife,

What now is would be then;

The cry that brought me back to life

Would make thee young again.

Alfred Austin
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