Death, have you flowers
To lay on my grave?
Bid them appear
Where flinty stones pave.
Death, have you laurels
To crown a mere name?
Only the living
Are conscious of fame.
Death, have you manna,
My spirit to feed?
Let me have daily bread
Now in my need.
Death, I will foil you—
No more importune.
Lo!—I want nothing.
Keep your poor boon!