Let the dream pass, the fancy fade!
We clutch a shape, and hold a shade.
Is Peace _so_ peaceful? Nay,--who knows!
There are volcanoes under snows.
_In after days when grasses high
O'er-top the stone where I shall lie,
Though ill or well the world adjust
My slender claim to honoured dust,
I shall not question or reply._
_I shall not see the morning sky;
I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;
I shall be mute, as all men must
In after days!_
_But yet, now living, fain were I
That some one then should testify,
Saying--"He held his pen in trust
To Art, not serving shame or lust."
Will none?--Then let my memory die
In after days!_