The Lonely Dreamer

He lives his lonely life, and when he dies

A thousand hearts maybe will utter sighs;

Because they liked his songs, and now their bird

Sleeps with his head beneath his wing, unheard.

But what kind hand will tend his grave, and bring

Those blossoms there, of which he used to sing?

Who’ll kiss his mound, and wish the time would came

To lie with him inside that silent tomb?

And who’ll forget the dreamer’s skill, and shed

A tear because a loving heart is dead?

Heigh ho for gossip then, and common sighs—

And let his death bring tears to no one’s eyes.