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THE DEAD.
51
Dear friends of our youth! can we cease to remember
The last look of life, and the low-whispered prayer?
O, cold be our hearts as the ice of December
When Love's tablets record no remembrances there.
The last look of life, and the low-whispered prayer?
O, cold be our hearts as the ice of December
When Love's tablets record no remembrances there.
Then forget not the Dead, who are evermore nigh us,
Still floating sometimes to our dream-haunted bed;—
In the loneliest hour, in the crowd, they are by us;
Forget not the Dead! oh, forget not the Dead!
Still floating sometimes to our dream-haunted bed;—
In the loneliest hour, in the crowd, they are by us;
Forget not the Dead! oh, forget not the Dead!
