Classic Poem

When I—the fool—am dead,
There will be one to stand above my head,
Her wan lips yearning for my quiet lips
That stung her soul so oft with bitter cries.
And I shall feel forgiving finger-tips
And I shall hear her saying with her sighs:
“This fool I mothered sucked a bitter breast;
His life was fever and his soul was fire:
O burning fool, O restless fool at rest,
No other knew how high you could aspire,
No other knew how deep your soul could sink!”

And when these words above the fool are said,
The others ranged about the room shall think:
‘The fool is dead.’