WHEN I HAVE PASSED AWAY
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hen I have passed away and am forgotten,And no one living can recall my face,When under alien sod my bones lie rottenWith not a tree or stone to mark the place; Perchance a pensive youth, with passion burning,For olden verse that smacks of love and wine,The musty pages of old volumes turning,May light upon a little song of mine, And he may softly hum the tune and wonderWho wrote the verses in the long ago;Or he may sit him down awhile to ponderUpon the simple words that touch him so.
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