With an Identity Disc

If ever I dreamed of my dead name

High in the heart of London, unsurpassed

By Time for ever, and the Fugitive, Fame,

There seeking a long sanctuary at last,

I better that; and recollect with shame

How once I longed to hide it from life's heats

Under those holy cypresses, the same

That shade always the quiet place of Keats,

Now rather thank I God there is no risk

Of gravers scoring it with florid screed,

But let my death be memoried on this disc.

Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed.

But may thy heart-beat kiss it night and day,

Until the name grow vague and wear away.