If onto death's own writ, I shall assign,
no casket then entomb this hollow husk
for wood has nobler task, than shelter mine
or wreak of tales from grief decaying musk.

Nor churches kiln, atone my steep abyss
so forged and billows when - the churning yields
tho' stone is cold, the sadness, I'll not miss
then lest repose to ash in barren fields.

Let none then ember from this corpse's blaze
if fire contrives to token dust therein
resist the soot, tho' if outdone by haze
then urn of brittle make - as was herein.

Should years devalue mine - own powdered rust
let sprinkle where; the winds shall sweep in gust.