22.08.2008, 17:49
Friends, when my latest bed of rest is made,
No empty bowls must ring my funeral knell,
But bumpers rouse the gay song's wildest swell,
While soft you lay me in my vineyard's shade;
And press the ripe grapes till they weep and aid
The rites for one that loved them still so well;
A goblet on my grave its place may tell;
And thus would I be mourned, and thus be laid.
My vines, close twining round, shall keep away
The rains, for water ever pained my sight;
Haply, as mild departs the autumnal day,
The nightingale, amid their clusters bright,
May sit, and sweetly pour for him the lay,
Whose song, like hers, was heard so oft at night.
No empty bowls must ring my funeral knell,
But bumpers rouse the gay song's wildest swell,
While soft you lay me in my vineyard's shade;
And press the ripe grapes till they weep and aid
The rites for one that loved them still so well;
A goblet on my grave its place may tell;
And thus would I be mourned, and thus be laid.
My vines, close twining round, shall keep away
The rains, for water ever pained my sight;
Haply, as mild departs the autumnal day,
The nightingale, amid their clusters bright,
May sit, and sweetly pour for him the lay,
Whose song, like hers, was heard so oft at night.