Author Richard Henry Stoddard The grass that is under me now Will soon be over me, Sweet: When you walk this way again, I shall not hear your feet. You may walk this way again And shed your tears like dew: They will be no more to me then Than mine are now to you. Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments