They tell me the grave is cold,
The bed underneath all the living day;
They speak of the worms that crawl in the mould,
And the rats that in the coffin play;
Up above the daisies spring,
Eyeing the wrens that over them sing:
I shall hear them not in my house of clay.

It is not so; I shall live in the veins
Of the life which painted the daisies' dim eye,
I shall kiss their lips when I fall in rains,
With the wrens and bees shall over them fly, —
In the trill of the sweet birds float
The music of every note,
A-lifting times veil, — is that called to die?
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