When I shall die, some folks will say
That I was loth to go.
How thoughtless . . . They who talk that way
Are not quite tired enough to know.
When I shall die, dig deep the grave
Beneath my hawthorn tree,
Where earth I prayed on will not save
The weary, wayward husk of me.
I want to slumber on and on,
Nor hear the wild birds sing;
I shall not know of dusk or dawn,
Of love, or pain, or anything.
Oh, I shall never dream in vain
When Spring laughs down the glen,
And I shall never feel the rain,
Nor weep weak tears, nor care again.
(Harold Crawford Stearns)