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