This is the spot where I will lie When life has had enough of me, These are the grasses that will blow Above me like a living sea.
These gay old lilies will not shrink To draw their life from death of mine, And I will give my body's fire To make blue flowers on this vine.
"O Soul," I said, "have you no tears?
Was not the body dear to you?"
I heard my soul say carelessly, "The myrtle flowers will grow more blue."