She Plans Her Funeral

Bring to me then all passionate, crimson flowers And lay them on my breast. They shall be symbols of the love-lit hours — And Love is best.

Folk who believe in Immortality, Why should they pass in panoply of woe? I would be linked with colour and ecstacy That day I go.

Linked with glad dancers, their white limbs set free, And rhythmical through veils of filmy green, With children, rose-flushed with a mystic glee — All these I mean To leave as wishes for my funeral day.

But, lest I burden those I leave behind, Let me add, hastily, that any way They care to manage — Will be to my mind !

Yet I crave mightily for that last hour At least one dancer and one crimson flower.