Poetry Archives

When dead, no imposing funeral rite,
  Nor line of praise I crave;
But drop your tears upon my face—
  Put flowers on my grave.

Close not in narrow wall the place
  In which my heart finds rest,
Nor mark with tow’ring monument
  The sod above my breast.

Nor carve on gleaming, marble slab
  A burning thought or deed,
Or word of love, or praise, or blame,
  For stranger eyes to read.

But deep, deep in your heart of hearts,
  A tender mem’ry save;
Upon my dead face drop your tears—
  Put flowers on my grave.