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.