Love, forget me when I’m gone,
When the tree is overthrown,
Let its place be digg’d and sown
O’er with grass ;—when that is grown,
The very place shall be unknown,
So court I oblivion.
So I charge thee, by our love,
Love, forget me when I’m gone.
Love of him that lies in clay
Only maketh life forlorn—
Clouding o’er the new-born day
With regrets of yester morn.
And what is love of him that’s low,
Or sunshine on his grave that floats?
Love nor sunshine reacheth now
Deeper that the daisy roots.
So, when he that nigh me hovers—
Death—that spares not happy lovers—
Comes to claim his little due,
Love—as thou art good and true—
Proudly give the churl his own,
And forget me when I’m gone.