When I am Gone.

When I am gone, give me no pagan rite:
I would not have you cut one single bloom
To die with me upon my grave,
To lose its snowy beauty overnight
And suffer by my death its own swift doom
Like some barbarian's beloved slave.
Make me a garden o'er my head, wind-fanned,
Sea-girt, and watered by the summer rains;
And in its heart, my wish conceives
Some homely sapling from my native land,
That this poor dust may stir within his veins
vAnd speak once more amid his whisp'ring leaves.

—Brendon Clark.