Still as On windless nights The moon-cast shadows are, So still will be my heart when I Am dead.

But me They cannot touch, Old age and death. The strange And ignominious end of old Dead folk!

Ere the horne'd owl hoot Once and twice and thrice there shall Go among the blind brown worms News of thy great burial; When the pomp is passed away, 'Here's a King,' the worms shall say.

Wouldst thou find my ashes? Look In the pages of my book; And as these thy hand doth turn, Know here is my funeral urn.

I make my shroud, but no one knows -- So shimmering fine it is and fair, With stitches set in even rows, I make my shroud, but no one knows. In door-way where the lilac blows, Humming a little wandering air, I make my shroud and no one knows, So shimmering fine it is and fair.