Now

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!