I shall rot here, with those whom in their day
You never knew
And alien ones who, ere they chilled to clay
Met not my view
Will in your distant grave-place ever neighbour you

No shade of pinnacle or tree or tower
While earth endures
Will fall on my mound and within the hour
Steal on to yours;
One robin never haunt our two green covertures

Some organ may resound on Sunday noons
By where you lie
Some other thrill the panеs with other tunes
Wherе moulder I;
No selfsame chords compose our common lullaby

The simply-cut memorial at my head
Perhaps may take
A Gothic form, and that above your bed
Be Greek in make;
No linking symbol show thereon for our tale's sake

And in the monotonous moils of strained, hard-run
Humanity
The eternal tie which binds us twain in one
No eye will see
Stretching across the miles that sever you from me