Classic Poem

When we shall be dust in the churchyard
—In twenty years—in fifty years—
Who will remember you kissed me once,
Who will be grieved for our tears?

The locust-tree will have grown taller,
The old walks will be hidden with grass,
And past our quiet graves may go straying
A youth with an arm round his lass.

And the bee that shall suck your grave-flowers,
—Meadow-sweet, flag, columbine—
May pause in his swift journey
To taste of the honey from mine.