Nor at my funeral either will there be any long trail,

bearing ancestral lares and images;

No trumpets filled with my emptiness,

Nor shall it be on an Atalic bed;

The perfumed cloths shall be absent.

A small plebeian procession.

Enough, enough and in plenty

There will be three books at my obsequies

Which I take, my not unworthy gift, to Persephone.

You will follow the bare scarified breast

Nor will you be weary of calling my name, nor too weary

To place the last kiss on my lips

When the Syrian onyx is broken.

“He who is now vacant dust

“Was once the slave of one passion:”

Give that much inscription

“Death why tardily come?”

You, sometimes, will lament a lost friend,

For it is a custom:

This care for past men,

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