Take these roses from off my door,
they do wither and wane too deep;
these sentiments, have I no more,
no more respite, no rest in sleep;
no strings of garland on my grave,
let me lie without such floral array;
no marker, no emblem, no stave,
let me sleep alone, as it is my way;
for in death, as in life, shall I find
that respite I have always sought;
let me sleep, if you be truly kind,
to rest, ‘ere my dreams be wrought.
Petrichor 