Classic Poem

Sing thou my songs for me when I am dead!
Soul of my soul, some day thou wilt awake
To see the morning on the hilltops break,
And the far summits flame with rosy red.
But I shall wake not, though above my head
Armies should thunder: nor for Love's sweet sake,
Though he the tenderest pilgrimage should make
Where I am lying in my grassy bed.
I shall be silent, with my song half sung:
I shall be dumb, with half the story told:
I shall be mute leaving the best unsaid.
Take thou the harp ere yet it be unstrung —
Wake thou the lyre ere yet its chords be cold —
Sing thou my songs — and thine — when I am dead!