Here you will find thePoemA Fragmentof poet Alfred Austin
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.
