The spirit’s eye hath pierced my gathering gloom,
With prophet instinct pointing to the dead;
Toward that vast future where our thoughts aspire,
How oft, upborne to heaven on wings of fire,
My soul hath death outsped!
O’er my last dwelling grave no haughty name,
Nor raise me monuments inscribed to fame.
Are the dead jealous of their lonely dust?
Leave only at my tomb enough of space,
Where some sad wanderer near the sacred place