Memories
by Nelle Richmond Eberhart

Oh, sweetest music,
Trembling to my lips
An old-time song of hers, familiar slips,
Till I remember, grieving as I must,
Her lips are dust,
Her lips are dust.

Oh, sweetest music, stirring with its beat
The heart of me, to measures sadly sweet;
But her glad heart, which once with mine did thrill,
Her heart is still,
Her heart is still.

Oh, sweetest music,
Dreaming of the morning,
I hear her softly singing in the corn,
I hear and thrill with rapture at the tone,
But wake alone,
But wake alone.