There seems to be no seemly way for dying:

Dank sepulchers with candles fending gloom;

A feather bed with loved ones softly crying…

The sudden dark before the cannon’s boom.

A lone procession by white stallions drawn,

The sooty grimness of the funeral pyre,

The solemn sounds of Taps at break of dawn—

Such rites make Death the one whom we admire.

Give me some nameless plot beside the sea,

A lonely path where lovers come and go;

A quiet mound beneath a shady tree,

Some reverent place that only spirits know.

Yes, dig the grave and lay me down with care;

Blessed by sweet tears of love—but not despair.