that I like to leaven it with occasional seriousness;
also that I tend to pontificate on the subject of fearlessness
towards death. Here I am able to achieve both objectives
simultaneously: the words birds and stone spring to mind.
I found the following sonnet written in longhand on a scrap
of paper and tucked inside the pages of a old velvet-bound copy
of a book of verse by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. It was untitled
and left no indication as to authorship. Unless you know better ...
Come not to mourn for me with solemn tread
Clad in dull weeds of sad and sable hue,
Nor weep because my tale of life's told through,
Casting light dust on my untroubled head,
Nor linger near me while the sexton fills
My grave with earth - but go gay-garlanded.
And in your halls a shining banquet spread
And gild your chambers o'er with daffodils.
Fill your tall goblets with white wine and red
And sing brave songs of gallant love and true
Wearing soft robes of emerald and blue
And dance, as I your dances oft have led,
And laugh, as I have often laughed with you
And be most merry - after I am dead.
