When I am very old and none there is
1
To lift their lips to mine, a flower's cup,
When I have drunken all life's vintage up,
And none shall find me good to see or touch,
And only Death shall find me good to kiss;
I think I shall not sorrow overmuch,
6
So long as April bares her flowering breast
In secret woodlands, and, with eyes of dew,
Lies to the others as once to me and you!