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I cannot know when grass will grow
Above my grave;
What friend will stand, with empty hand,
And tears to lave
The daisies fair that flourish there--
I love them best;
I cannot tell if hill or dell
Will give me rest.


I do not pine for marble shrine
Or graven stone,
Or fragrant bowers of costly flowers
By dear ones sown;
But plant a tree to shelter me,
Of nature's green;
The mountain-ash, whose berries flash
With ruby sheen.


And come, sometimes, when sunset chimes
Their chorus ring;
And with the birds your loving words
In concert sing.
And I shall hear the notes of cheer
From worlds above;
For heaven is nigh to those who die
With hearts of love.