O let my grave an artless garden grow

O let my grave an artless garden grow,
   Where lusty wild-flowers take pride of place --
Where may the Earth herself reap of my woe
   Memorial bouquets all trimmed in lace
By spiders wove. I'll have the honey-bees
   To tend the grounds; the open field, a church
Where meadow-larks sing merry eulogies;
   And for a marker but a paper-birch
Upon which lovers can cut lettered hearts,
   My epitaph. Thus life attests my life;
Thus nature resurrects me in her arts;
   Thus life of death bears fruit and again makes ripe.
So long as gardens grown upon my grave,
So long will life my time in time engrave.