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I want no weeping at my grave,
except my wife’s lamenting brief;
I need no tears of yours and save,
oh save yourselves the bogus grief.

I want no moaning of a bell
nor all that mourners’ gloomy yowling;
oh, may the wind and rain raise hell,
and to my funeral come howling.

A lump of earth, if you’re so bound,
hurl down before it’s through, and may
the Sun illume my burial mound,
and ever burn the withered clay.

But maybe there will come the time
when I feel weary of my rest:
I’ll wrack the tomb and out will climb,
against the sun I shall contest.

And when you see me then in flight,
my form aglow and out of reach,
require me to forsake the height,
but use the words of my own speech.

So I can hear them, as of yore,
when then I pass a starry lane –
and maybe I’ll take up once more
the strife that used to be my bane.