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.”