Classic Poem

— O William! — she cried, — strew no blossoms of spring,
For the new — apparatus — might rust;
But say that a handful of shavings you 'll bring,
And linger to see me combust.

— Oh, promise me, love, by the fire-hole you 'll watch;
And when mourners and stokers convene,
You will see that they light me some solemn, slow match,
And warn them against kerosene.

— It would cheer me to know, ere these rude breezes waft
My essences far to the pole,
That one whom I love will look to the draught,
And have a fond eye on the coal.

— Then promise me, love, — — and her voice fainter grew, —
— While this body of mine calcifies,
You will stand just as near as you can to the flue,
And gaze while my gases arise.

— For Thompson — Sir Henry — has found out a way
(Of his — process — you 've surely heard tell)
How you burn like a parlor-match gently away,
Nor even offend by a smell.

— So none of the dainty need sniff in disdain
When my carbon floats up to the sky;
And I 'm sure, love, that you will never complain
Though an ash should blow into your eye.

— Yes, promise me, love, — — and she murmured low, —
— When the calcification is o'er,
You will sit by my grave in the twilight glow —
I mean, by the furnace door.

— That often, my love, while the seasons revolve
On their noiseless axles, the years,
You will visit the kiln where you saw me resolve,
And leach my pale ashes with tears. —