LEAN my aching forehead on my palms,And think how it will be another year; When May, with passionate showers and sunny calms, Will walk this way, and I shall not be here.
The city will not miss me: I have been Only a step-child of its dust and noise; Longing and homesick, in its strife and din, For the green country and its quiet joys.
Threading its wilderness of crowded streets, How have I longed for rural summer-tides,—For tangled wood-paths, full of dewy sweets, And cool green ways by murmuring river-sides!
These alien souls will never miss the face, Tear-stained sometimes, and sometimes summer-fair,Which came and went among them for a space, And then was gone,—and no one wondered where.
But thou, who wanderest distant lands across, How will thy heart, O tender and most dear, Ache with a sudden sense of bitter loss When thou returnest and I am not here!
LEAN my aching forehead on my palms, And think how it will be another year; When May, with passionate showers and sunny calms, Will walk this way, and I shall not be here. 
LEAN my aching forehead on my palms, And think how it will be another year; When May, with passionate showers and sunny calms, Will walk this way, and I shall not be here. 