Don't stand before my grave and weep; br For like poetry I only die in theories of my sleep, br 'Rather merry with aromatic culinary mead, br Until myriad tear-tribes flow from your eyes and bleed. br br Don't stand before my grave and weep; br 'Rather play for me an exotic night-piece, br I want to hear the sympathetic strings of that viol, br I want to feel the redundant harrows of that harp. br br Like a Kachikau cactus blooming from peerage so be I, br Evergreen like myrtle so be me, br And that seed of over ripeness shall burn at my sight...