John Anster (1789-1867)

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If I might choose where my tired limbs shall lie
When my task here is done, the oak's green crest
Shall rise above my grave--a little mound,
Raised in some cheerful village cemetery.
And I could wish that, with unceasing sound,
A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by
In music through the long soft twilight hours.
And let the hand of her whom I love best
Plant round the bright green grave those fragrant flowers
In whose deep bells the wild-bee loves to rest;
And should the robin from some neighbouring tree
Pour his enchanted song-oh softly tread!
For sure if aught of earth can soothe the dead
He still must love that pensive melody.

(Compare Rupert Brooke's The Soldier.)