To A Child – Francis Thompson

Whenas my life shall time with funeral tread

The  heavy death-drum of the beaten hours,

Following, sole mourner, mine own manhood dead,

Poor forgot corse, where not a maid strows flowers;

When I you love am no more I you love,

But go with unsubservient feet, behold

Your dear face through changed eyes, all grim change prove;–

A new man, mock-ed with misname of old;

When shamed Love keep his ruined lodging, elf!

When, ceremented in mouldering memory,

Myself is hears-ed underneath myself,

And I am but the monument of me:-

O to that tomb be tender then, which bears

Only the name of him it sepulchres!