 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
THE DYING LOVER.
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.
Will soon be over me, Sweet;
When you walk this way again
I shall not hear your feet.
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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!
And shed your tears like dew;
They will be no more to me then
Than mine are now to you!
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |