I care not that the world, when I am dead,
Remember me; I care not that they come
To see the place where I shall lay my head,
Or praise me with low voices at my tomb;
I would not even a recording stone
Should tell them what I was--when I am gone.
There are a few who love me--whom I love--
Gentle and gifted spirits, who would weep,
But not that I had found a rest above,
And in their hearts my trifling virtues keep;
And one, whom I have folded like a dove
In my affections, would lie down and sleep
Softly beside me--and I should not care,
That any one should know that I was there.