Or praise me with low voices at my tomb;
I would not even a recording stone
Should tell them what I was—when I am gone.
There are a few who love me—whom I love—
Gentle and gifted spirits, who would weep,
But not that I had found a rest above,
And in their hearts my trifling virtues keep;
And one, whom I have folded like a dove
In my affections, would lie down and sleep
Softly beside me—and I should not care,