Whenas my life shall time with funeral tread <br />The heavy death-drum of the beaten hours, <br />Following, sole mourner, mine own manhood dead, <br />Poor forgot corse, where not a maid strows flowers; <br />When I you love am no more I you love, <br />But go with unsubservient feet, behold <br />Your dear face through changed eyes, all grim change prove;-- <br />A new man, mock-ed with misname of old; <br />When shamed Love keep his ruined lodging, elf! <br />When, ceremented in mouldering memory, <br />Myself is hears-ed underneath myself, <br />And I am but the monument of me:- <br />O to that tomb be tender then, which bears <br />Only the name of him it sepulchres!<br /><br />Francis Thompson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-a-child-5/
