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!