That on your pathway throws its petals sweet,

When the sharp thorn is springing near your side

And nettles pierce the mould beneath your feet,

You’ll wish for me.

Some day, my darling, when the crystal cup

Of Beauty shattered lies, and spilled its wine;

When Pleasure’s urn denies your lips one sup,

And you drink deep of Disappointment’s brine,

You’ll wish for me.

Some day the wreath will wilt upon your head;

You’ll smell the bud and find a worm within.

Some day, my darling, when your friends have fled,

And strangers mock your frequent tears, ah! then

You’ll wish for me.

Some day, my darling, when Death’s dews fall cold

Upon your brow, you’ll gladly let me come—

When dreams present the shroud that must enfold

Your limbs, and your sweet lips grow chill and dumb,

You’ll wish for me.

You’ll long for him whose hands were oft denied

To pluck a rose lest they the bush pollute—

Yet he would come and stand a slave aside.

To grasp the bramble and the thorn uproot,

If you but wished for him.

He’d kiss your limbs the hidden briar had torn,

And bathe the wounds with Pity’s saddest tear;

He’d close your eyes that ne’er till death had worn

For him one look of love, and at your bier

He’d kneel and pray

For strength to watch you hidden from his sight,

For strength to turn aside and leave you there

Clasped in the arms of everlasting night;

And yet, my darling, not as great despair

He’d feel than now.