What’s in my name for you? What good?
It will but die: a wave’s sad sound
On distant sands, splashing aground;
A cry in a benighted wood.
It will leave a dead trace among
these album pages: the design
of someone's epitaphic line
in some unfathomable tongue.
What's in it then? Lost to the past
in newer emotions' insurrection,
upon your soul it will not cast
the tender rays of recollection.
But on a day of hushed regret
pronounce it with a sighing pain,
and tell the cold: “There's memory yet!
There is one heart where I remain.”
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