When from this prison-house of clay <br />My vexed spirit shall pass away, <br />To the mighty land of eternity, <br />Oh, lay me not among mouldering bones, <br />Where the moon shines cold upon marble stones, <br />Where for ever some hopeless mourner groans <br />O'er the dust of them that peaceful lie. <br /> <br />I would not have my dwelling made <br />By the careless sexton's rusty spade; <br />Nor in silver-plated coffin sleep; <br />No funeral wain shall bear me on <br />To the final home where all have gone; <br />Oh no; I would rest in some forest lone, <br />Or be cradled in the rolling deep. <br /> <br />In some woodland glade where the sunbeams fall <br />On my flower-sprinkled emerald pall, <br />In whose shade the tuneful nightingale <br />Might sing my dirge to the dark blue skies, <br />Till tears should drop from their sparkling eyes, <br />And the sleeping winds awake in sighs, <br />And wildly join in the artless wail. <br /> <br />Or else in the billow's embrace I'd lie, <br />Where the cold green spray might o'er me fly <br />With a soft and pleasant murmuring, <br />Like the mother's lullaby above <br />The sleeping infant of her love; <br />Where the feet of the tempest alone can move, <br />There would I rest like an Ocean King.<br /><br />Peter John Allan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-rhapsody-2/
