If, when I die, I must be buried, let // No cemetery engulph me no lone grot, // Where the great palpitating world comes not, // Save when, with heart bowed down and eyelids wet, // It pays its last sad melancholy debt // To some outjourneying pilgrim. May my lot // Be rather to lie in some much-used spot, // Where human life, with all its noise and fret, // Throbs on about me. Let the roll of wheels, // With all earth's sounds of pleasure, commerce, love, // And rush of hurrying feet surge oer my head. // Even in my grave I shall be one who feels // Close kinship with the pulsing world above; // And too deep silence would distress me, dead. [My Grave, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox]

If, when I die, I must be buried, let // No cemetery engulph me no lone grot, // Where the great palpitating world comes not, // Save when, with heart bowed down and eyelids wet, // It pays its last sad melancholy debt // To some outjourneying pilgrim. May my lot // Be rather to lie in some much-used spot, // Where human life, with all its noise and fret, // Throbs on about me. Let the roll of wheels, // With all earth's sounds of pleasure, commerce, love, // And rush of hurrying feet surge oer my head. // Even in my grave I shall be one who feels // Close kinship with the pulsing world above; // And too deep silence would distress me, dead. [My Grave, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox]