Classic Poem

I am so glad that you are dead —
I sing to you when the stars swing low;
And though I sang till dawn grew red,
You still must hear — you could not go.

You are contented, being dead,
You who were used to wander far.
Now I plant flowers at your head,
And steal out nightly where you are.

Now it is I can go oversea;
And though I stayed till years were sped,
You would lie peaceful, waiting me:
I am so glad that you are dead!