Poetry Archives

I have done with love and lust,
       I reck not for gold or fame;
I await familiar dust
       These frail fingers to reclaim:
       Not for me the tiger flame.

Not for me the furnace glow,
       Rage of fire and ashen doom;
To sweet earth my bones bestow
       Where above a lowly tomb
       January roses bloom.

Fools and fools and fools are you
       Who your dears to fires confide;
Give to Mother Earth her due:
       Flesh may waste but bone will bide,—
       Let loved ones lie side by side.

Let God’s Acre ever dream;
       Shed your tears and blossoms bring;
On age-burnished bone will gleam
       Crucifix and wedding ring:
       Graves are for sweet comforting.

       Curst be those who my remains
       Hurl to horror of the flames!