PLANT o'er my grave, whene'er Death's slumber chances, Sweet roses, climbing vines the spot to gladden; And when the rosebuds burst their mimic lances, And when the vines with purple grapes are laden, When Spring and Autumn bring their merry dances, This song shall o'er me sound of youth and maiden: 'As erst in life, in death he now reposes, Just as he wished, among the vines and roses.' |