Page:Poems (IA poemstennalfr00tennrich).pdf/15

 When, in the darkness over me, The fourhanded mole shall scrape, Plant thou no dusky cypresstree, Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape, But pledge me in the flowing grape.

And when the sappy field and wood Grow green beneath the showery gray, And rugged barks begin to bud, And through damp holts, newflushed with May, Ring sudden langhters of the Jay;

Then let wise Nature work her will And on my clay her darnels grow. Come only, when the days are still, And at my headstone whisper low, And tell me if the woodbines blow,