Plant a birch tree on my grave
When you bury me;
In all the wild, wet spring woods
There is not sweeter tree;
She is so delicae, so rare, her body is so white,
And she cries like a gentle ghost,
All the long night.

I love her; she shall be my lute
When I am dead;
She shall carry all the earth's tunes
Into my small bed;
She will not break the stir of wings
That are as fine as glass;
Neither will let the rain away
On to the wild grass.

When stars come out above the earth
She will shake them down;
All in a shower through her hair
They shall be blown;
She knows the stars, and they know her, —
O what a lovely thing
Is a young birch tree growing up
In the green spring.