If I might choose where my tired limbs shall lie

When my task here is done, the oak’s green crest

Shall rise above my grave — a little mound,

Raised in some cheerful village cemetery.

Also See: A Poem By Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o on COVID-19

And I could wish, that, with unceasing sound,

A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by —

In music — through the long soft twilight hours.

And let the hand of her, whom I love best,

Plant round the bright green grave those fragrant flowers

In whose deep bells the wild-bee loves to rest;

And should the robin from some neighbouring tree

Pour his enchanted song—oh! Softly tread,

For sure, if aught of earth can soothe the dead,

He still must love that pensive melody!

Read More: Poetry and Short Narrations