WHAT I would wish for is nor praise nor fame, E'en to the height of kingly thrones attaining; Nor shall Love's silent sanctuary's flame Bind me, with links of roses softly chaining. For Love, alas! oft builds its house on sand, Its whispers sweet become a cry of anguish, It leaves a thorny robe within the hand -- And praise and fame are but men's whims that vanish. What I would wish for is a fair Spring day, On which my coffin should with earth be covered; In azure air a lark's clear, joyous lay, While o'er my pall a butterfly light hovered. No weeping or lamenting, no, oh, no! Ne'er would I wish to have such useless off'ring; But as toward their homes the neighbors go, Let them think: Good was she we've been burying. |