I know that I shall die! and oh, beloved, Chide me not now if o'er _thy_ heart I send The echoes of that voice which I have long In silence heard. I would have been the sunshine o'er thy path, But such was not my lot. The light must fade-- The tones thou lovest linger not. I die Ere the young freshness of our love hath flown I die, and thou wilt be on earth alone! Speak not, dear friend! Let this sad thought now find An utterance--solemn, strange, as it hath swept O'er me like some strong whirlwind in its might; But now 't hath melted to a moaning wind, Which lulleth me to peace. The flush of health Is on my cheek, and the cool blood moves on Through all my veins, unfevered in its flow; And yet I know that I shall die, and ere The young fair flowers, which thou and I have sown, Have faded on their stems, be all at rest! There is strange music in the air, and tones Upon the twilight breeze, and voices heard In midnight dreams, for those who early die; And I have heard them all, and my doomed heart With life hath striven until the victory Is won. I would that we had earlier met, Dear friend, that all the sunshine of my first Young dreams were poured on thee, for now my love Hath caught that settled sadness which deep love On earth must ever wear. Have I not looked On death, and are they not companions e'er? And memory, grows it not tearful too? Do high hopes wither not? 'Twas thus, while life's young spring bloomed on my cheek, My heart grew sorrowful beyond its years, And learned to fear and doubt, and for its dreams And hopes a coffin made, all sealed and hid, Till thou didst loose them once again. But, oh! they could not spring to meet thine own, With all the freshness of their early day. There lived the memory of the past, And when I clasped thy hand in mine, and looked Into thine eyes, and heard thy words of love, My heart grew dark with sad and tearful thought. I have remembered me, That hands which I had clasped in love were now The earthworms' prey; soft eyes were quenched, and tones Of love were changed by time, or stilled by death! Oh! I have drained from even joy the dregs Of grief, which in its cup have mingled ever. Perchance its tracery was on my brow, And all my love, the fond, and deep, and true, Hath been upon thy lot a shadow cast. 'Tis well that I depart ere it grow deep, And link the sunshine of its joyous soul With its dark hues.