There, through the long, long summer hours,
   The golden light should lie,
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
   Stand in their beauty by,
The oriole should build and tell
His love-tale close beside my cell;
   The idle butterfly
Should rest him there, and there be heard
The house-wife bee and humming bird.

And what, if cheerful shouts, at noon,
   Come from the village sent,
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
   With fairy laughter blent?
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothed lovers walk in sight
   Of my low monument?
I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight or sound.

I know, I know I should not see
   The season's glorious show,
Nor would its brightness shine for me,
   Nor its wild music flow;
But if, around my place of sleep,
The friends I love should come to weep,
   They might not haste to go.
Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

These to their softened hearts should bear
   The thought of what has been,
And speak of one who cannot share
   The gladness of the scene;
Whose part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills,
   Is, that his grave is green;
And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear again his living voice.