Classic Poem

I waste no pity on my dying self,
Because some woman yet may take my place
(Nay, swear no oaths that future days may rue,
But closer to mine own bend thy dear face).

Hers it will be to sigh; for, knowing thee,
This, too, I know: the old dream shall obtain,
Even while thy head rests soft upon her arm,
And while thy hand of her warm hand is fain.

And every kiss given in despair to her
Upon my lips in fancy will be pressed,
And soon or late her breaking heart will learn
She cannot drive thy dead love from thy breast.

O blame me not, since I must go, that I
Can snatch prophetic triumph in this hour.
I who have been thy Light, thy Love, thine Own
Will not, in death, resign my queenly power.

I shall be thine. Thy soul cannot divorce
Me from my place. I fear no later days,
Though in them thou wilt learn to smile again,
And walk with seeming cheer earth's pleasant ways.

Yes, thine I still shall be, — as truly thine,
Perhaps, as when warm kisses I could give;
And so re-kissed, re-loved, and re-embraced in her
By thy despair, I, being dead, shall live!