A Dying Poet’s Final Sonnet

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Bury me not in a high tomb of gloom

on days sacred to all your lonely heart

nor scatter my ashes in the pale moon

on June’s or September’s early-late start.

 

Mix me in with all my good beastlies‘ dust,

one third reserved for Elsi’s sweet embrace,

two parts crushed into diamonds that not rust

worn near heart or hurled to a far star trace.

 

If thy can’t bear part with my ash and bones

plant me in a petunia pot, blond bloom

monitored by your sweet echoing tones

growing forever in our living room.

 

Either way I was loved, I cried, I sighed,

I aspired and created all under your tide.

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