When my poor bones are hearsed in quiet clay,
And final sleep hath sealed my wondering eyes,
The moon as now will sail through tranquil skies;
The soft wind in the meadow-grasses play;
And sacred Eve, with half-closed eyelids, dream;
And Dawn, with rosy fingers, draw the veils
Of silver from her shining face; and gales
Sing loudly; and the rain from eaveshoots stream
With bubbling music. Seek my soul in these;
I am a part of them; and they will keep
Perchance the music which I wrought with tears.
When the moon shines above the silent trees
Your eyes shall see me; and when soft as sleep
Come murmurs of the rain, ah, bend your ears!