Should fickle hands in far-off days <br />No longer stroke thy hair, <br />And lips that once were proud to praise <br />Forget to call thee fair, <br />Sigh but my name, and though I be <br />Mute in the churchyard mould, <br />I will arise and come to thee, <br />And worship as of old. <br /> <br />And should I meet the wrinkled brow, <br />Or find the silver tress, <br />What were't to me, it would be thou, <br />I could not love thee less. <br />'Gainst love time wages bootless strife, <br />What now is would be then; <br />The cry that brought me back to life <br />Would make thee young again.<br /><br />Alfred Austin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-fragment-8/
