Classic Poem

Oh why will ye make my bed my bier,
Why make this place my grave to be,
With the tears ye weep, and the looks of fear,
The deathly looks that ye bend on me?

Bring, bring me flowers, fresh and sweet,
For O on my breast I feel the heap,
And I feel the stones at my head and feet,
With such deathly look ye stand and weep.

Weep, and let the bell be tolled,
When no breath the glass shall stain,
But let them not my face behold,
When that I cannot look again.

To the grassy yard I go, where tears
Do water all the flowers that grow;
I go, I haste,—O cease your fears,—
Green is the land to which I go.

Dig my grave, where the church-yard spire
Each day may throw its shade on me;
Plant my grave with the bloomless brier,
To show that I died a maiden free.

But now, of childhood speak, and spring,
Give me thoughts that are sweet as its flowers,
The songs that I loved O sweetly sing!
Give me thoughts of the pleasant hours.