The Clay

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  When I cast my slough of clay
  Put it quietly away.

  Let no bloom untimely fade
  Where my empty heart is laid.

  Ask no folk to crowd around
  With an air of woe profound.

  Those who love me know that I
  Cannot in a coffin lie.

  Let them go where’er they will,
  Dreaming of me living still.

  Let no formal words be said
  Customary for the dead.

  Plant no stone above the pit:
  Let the grass run over it.

© John Le Gay Brereton