by Luis G. Dato
To see my feverish hours
Pass by so slowly,
Who would beside me sit,
My bed so lowly?
And when with tremulous hand,
I’m nigh the end,
O who would clasp it then,
What kindly friend?
When death has turned to glass
From my eyes the light,
My eyelids then still open,
Who close their sight?
And when the bells low sounding
Toll in the air,
Who, hearing them, will whisper
One last, soft prayer?
When my pale form descends
In the cold earth to lie,
Who o’er my tomb forgotten
Would for me cry?
In short, who on the morrow,
When the sun dawns anew,
That once I passed on earth
Recall to you?
