My way of life is sere and yellow grown,
As lusty Autumn dies in Winter's clutch,
And in short time, methinks, a little stone
Will hide me whom thou say'st thou loveth much.
Then, when thy better friends shall make thee gay,
Think not upon this friend who loved thee so,
For I had rather be forgot alway
Than live in they sweet memory for thy woe.
Yet, if thou e'er shouldst stand beside my grave,
When my vile part by worms destroyéd is,
Of thy poor friend one only though to have
Would be to thee small pain—to me great bliss.
Truly my Soul, where e'er that Soul might be,
Would know if thou on Earth did'st think of me.