Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Oft I remember those whom I have known
  In other days, to whom my heart was led
  As by a magnet, and who are not dead,
  But absent, and their memories overgrown
With other thoughts and troubles of my own,
  As graves with grasses are, and at their head
  The stone with moss and lichens so o'erspread,
  Nothing is legible but the name alone.
And is it so with them?  After long years,
  Do they remember me in the same way,
  And is the memory pleasant as to me?
I fear to ask; yet wherefore are my fears?
  Pleasures, like flowers, may wither and decay,
  And yet the root perennial may be.