Others may wish to lay them down
On some fair hillside far from town,
Where slim white birches wave and gleam
Beside a shadowy woodland stream,
Or in luxurious beds of fern,
But I would have my dust return
To the one place it loved the best
In days when it was happiest.
To a Young Lady on Her Birthday
The marching years go by
And brush your garment's hem.
The bandits by and by
Will bid you go with them.
Trust not that caravan!
Old vagabonds are they;
They'll rob you if they can,
And make believe it's play.
Make the old robbers give
Of all the spoils they bear,—
Their truth, to help you live,—
Their joy, to keep you fair.
Ask not for gauds nor gold,
Nor fame that falsely rings;
The foolish world grows old
Caring for all these things.