Sometime, when I have become a quiet portrait on the wall,
Will you, my fair descendant, stop to think of me at all?

Suppose your hands are shaped like mine and you have my keen sense of fun.
Will there be one to tell you so...then...when my days are done?

If you love books and fires and songs, and silver moons in velvet skies,
Toss me a look of shared delight from those, my own dark eyes.

For there are kinships in a curl and namesakes in a spoken name;
The wine of life may yet be poured by faded hands within a frame.