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Alfred Austin - A Fragment
Work rating: Low

Should fickle hands in far—off days
 No longer stroke thy hair,
 And lips that once were proud to praise
 Forget to call thee fair,
 Sigh but my name, and though I be
 Mute in the churchyard mould,
 I will arise and come to thee,
 And worship as of old.

 And should I meet the wrinkled brow,
 Or find the silver tress,
 What were`t to me, it would be thou,
 I could not love thee less.
 `Gainst love time wages bootless strife,
 What now is would be then;
 The cry that brought me back to life
 Would make thee young again.
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