Up and away, like the dew of the morn­ing,
Soaring from earth to its home in the sun,
So let me steal away, gent­ly and lov­ing­ly,
Only re­mem­bered by what I have done.

My name and place, and my grave, all for­got­ten,
My time’s brief race well and pa­tient­ly run;
So let me pass away, peace­ful­ly, si­lent­ly,
Only re­mem­bered by what I have done.

Gladly away from this toil would I hast­en,
Up to the crown that for me has been won;
Unsung on earth in re­wards or in prais­es,
Only re­mem­bered by what I have done.

Up and away like the od­ors of sun­set,
Sweetening the twi­light as dark­ness comes on,
So be my life, some­thing felt but not no­ticed,
Only re­mem­bered by what I have done.

Yes, like the frag­rance that wan­ders in fresh­ness,
Blossoms it came from all closed up and gone,
So would I be to this world’s wea­ry dwell­ers,
Only re­mem­bered by what I have done.

Need there be praise of the love-writ­ten re­cord?
Name and an ep­i­taph grav­en on stone?
Things I have lived for, let them be my sto­ry,
I but re­mem­bered by what I have done.

I need no shrine, if I have been bear­ing,
As sum­mer, au­tumn, move si­lent­ly on,
The bloom, the fruit and the seed of their sea­son;
I’ll be re­mem­bered by what I have done.

No cause need fail, if an­oth­er suc­ceed me,
Reaping the fields which in spring I have sown;
Plower and sow­er not missed by the reap­er,
Only re­mem­bered by what I have done.

No, not my­self, but the truth I have spok­en,
No, not my­self, but the seed I have sown,
Pass down the ag­es, my name all for­got­ten,
Only the truth, and the things I have done.

As was my liv­ing, so be my dy­ing;
So let my name lie, un­bla­zoned, un­known;
Unpraised, un­missed, I shall still be re­mem­bered,
For God re­cords all the things I have done.