I have done with love and lust,
 I reck not for gold or fame;
I await familiar dust
 These frail fingers to reclaim:
 Not for me the tiger flame.
 
Not for me the furnace glow,
 Rage of fire and ashen doom;
To sweet earth my bones bestow
 Where above a lowly tomb
 January roses bloom.

Fools and fools and fools are you
 Who your dears to fires confide;
Give to Mother Earth her due:
 Flesh may waste but bone will bide,--
 Let loved ones lie side by side.

Let God's Acre ever dream;
 Shed your tears and blossoms bring;
On age-burnished bone will gleam
 Crucifix and wedding ring:
 Graves are for sweet comforting.

 Curst be those who my remains
 Hurl to horror of the flames!