Memoirs of Anne C. L. Botta/Until death

Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend, To love me, though I die, thy whole life long, And love no other till thy days shall end; Nay, it were rash and wrong.

If thou canst love another, be it so; I would not reach out of my quiet grave To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go: Love should not be a slave.

My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene In clearer light than gilds these earthly morns, Above the jealousies and envies keen Which sow this life with thorns.

Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy caress, If after death my soul should linger here; Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness, Love's presence, warm and near.

It would not make me sleep more peacefully That thou wert wasting all thy life in woe For my poor sake; what love thou hast for me          Bestow it ere I go.

Carve not upon a stone when I am dead The praises which remorseful mourners give To women's graces,---a tardy recompense,--- But speak thou while I live.

Heap not the heavy marble on my head To shut away the sunshine and the dew; Let small blooms grow there and let grasses wave, And raindrops filter through.

Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay Than I; but, trust me, thou canst never find One who will love and serve thee night and day With a more single mind.

Forget me when I die!---the violets Above my rest will blossom just as blue, Nor miss thy tears: e'en Nature's self forgets;--- But while I live, be true!