If I can but help you
Too thickly tangled round my tomb,
Lest fleecy clouds that skim the summer sky,
Flinging their faint soft shadows, pass it by,
And know not over whom.
Too frequent round that nook of rest;
Should I -- who knoweth? -- not be deaf, though dumb,
Bird's idle pipe, or bee's laborious hum,
Would suit me, listening, best.
Words to provoke a smile or sneer;
But only carve -- at least if they be true --
These simple words, or some such, and as few,
"He whom we loved lies here.''
Find out some quite sequestered slope
That, girt behind with undeciduous wood,
In front o'erlooks the ocean -- then I should
Die with a calmer hope.
This last request of mine fulfil,
I rest your debtor for the final throw
And if I can but help you where I go,
Be sure, fond friends, I will.
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