Eugene Lee-Hamilton (1845–1907)

WHEN we are gone, love,

Gone as the breeze,

Woods will be sweet, love,

Even as these.

Sunflecks will dance, love,

Even as now,

Here on the moss, love,

Under the bough.

Others unborn, love,

Maybe will sit

Here in the wood, love,

Leafily lit;

Hearking as now, love,

Treble of birds;

Breathing as we, love,

Wondering words.

Others will sigh, love,

Even as we:

‘Only a day, love,’

Murmurs the bee.