Death concerns itself not with me;
No need to lift his gown
Above the litter of mourners
That surround this poor stick.
Not at the end of his appointed journey,
But in the middle will he find me,
Resting in a country lane
With a lapful of daisies,
And hair all wet with running the grassy lea;
Quite breathless with shiny eyes,
So he will catch me, quite unaware,
Waiting for the White Knight
To cross the wooden stile at last.
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