UPON my bier no garlands lay, To shrivel at death's icy touch; Pansies for thought bequeathed to-day, Were worth a thousand such! Rare flowers too often serve the pride Which grants them -- naught beside. No lavish tears that laggard be, Pour vainly on my pulseless clay; A single drop of sympathy Were richer boon to-day; To-day I need it -- but, thank God, No need is in the sod. Yield now the sign, or let me go Unlaurelled into waiting space; Not taunted by a hollow show Of friendship's tardy grace; Not mocked by fruits that would not fall Save as an idle pall. Fair blossoms with love's dewdrops wet, And fondly laid in folded hands, Must hold the grateful spirit yet While wandering in strange lands; But wounded souls the meed must spurn That only Death can earn! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LACK OF STEADFASTNESS; BALLAD by GEOFFREY CHAUCER THE DARK FOREST by PHILIP EDWARD THOMAS ARISTOPHANES' APOLOGY; BEING THE LAST ADVENTURE OF BALAUSTION: PART 1 by ROBERT BROWNING HELEN'S FACE A BOOK by FRANK GELETT BURGESS OBSERVATIONS IN THE ART OF ENGLISH POESY: 20. ELEGIAC VRSE: THE THIRD EPIGRAM by THOMAS CAMPION TO MY DEAR AND MOST WORTHY FRIEND, MR. IZAAK WALTON by CHARLES COTTON |