My Grave

For me no great metropolis of the dead, —
Highways and byways, squares and crescents of
death, —
But after I have breathed my last sad breath,
Am comforted with quiet, I who said,
"I weary of men's voices and their tread,
Of clamoring bells, and whirl of wheels that pass," —
Lay me beneath some plot of country grass.

Where flowers may spring, and birds sing overhead; —
Whereto one coming, some fair eve in spring.
Between the day-fall and the tender night,
Might pause awhile, his friend remembering.
And hear low words, breathed through the failing light,
In tone as soft as the wind's whispering:
"Now he sleeps long, who had so long to fight."