I do not need a grand sepulchre, Nor be remembered in bronze, Don't need a sculpted beauty To tend me after I'm gone. No reflecting fount Or grand account, No Angels of death, No Angels of peace, No greek god in bas relief. Leave me be, let me not be still, Let those metallic wings flutter from winter chill, Let the past be dead, And my memory make you friends, Let my memory conjure love, And not cold to touch, Let it rival the sunset, With the dawning wings of the Oriole above.
Bury all our woes from household ills, Without maintenance-- --Without upkeep-- Overgrown on our stroll through the Forest Hills.
Forest Hills cemetery, Boston MA " He will not slumber nor sleep...." On the entry arch.