No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Nor dirges play nor toll the dismal bell,
For when in earth I’m laid at last to bed
My spirit will in a better country dwell,
Where then what is will be as if it’s not,
And what is not will be again. ‘Tis so,
For there is that which cannot be forgot
But rises out of reach of tearful woe.
Why would the poet seek to catch in verse
Our deeds if we were only drying clay
And did not in our lives by acts rehearse
A drama that resists mortal decay?
Our going would elicit only moan
If we were wholly gone when we are gone.