To —— —

Nor wandered into other ways:

I have not lacked thy mild reproof,

      Nor golden largess of thy praise,

      But life is full of weary days.

Of that deep grave to which I go.

Shake hands once more: I cannot sink

      So far—far down, but I shall know

      Thy voice, and answer from below.

The fourhanded mole shall scrape,

Plant thou no dusky cypresstree,

      Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape,

      But pledge me in the flowing grape.

Grow green beneath the showery gray,

And rugged barks begin to bud,

      And through damp holts, newflushed with May,

      Ring sudden langhters of the Jay;

And on my clay her darnels grow.

Come only, when the days are still,

      And at my headstone whisper low,

      And tell me if the woodbines blow,

Undimmed, if bees are on the wing:

Then cease, my friend, a little while,

      That I may hear the throstle sing

      His bridal song, the boast of spring.

Of bubbling wells that fret the stones,

(If any sense in me remains)

      Thy words will be; thy cheerful tones

      As welcome to my crumbling hones.