Poetry Archives

This is the spot where I will lie
 When life has had enough of me,
These are the grasses that will blow
 Above me like a living sea.

These gay old lilies will not shrink
 To draw their life from death of mine,
And I will give my body’s fire
 To make blue flowers on this vine.

“O Soul,” I said, “have you no tears?
 Was not the body dear to you?”
I heard my soul say carelessly,
 “The myrtle flowers will grow more blue.”