MY CREED

What care I for the pure white rose placed in my cold, stiff, hand?

What care I for words of praise when I cannot understand?

I care not for flowers heaped in wreaths upon my mound,

I cannot scent their fragrance sweet when I am 'neath the ground.

What good will deeds of honor do above my lifeless form?

When I have anchored in the veil, safe, sheltered from the storm.

Oh give to me my roses now, kind words of love I crave.

Wait not till death has touched my brow and I lie in my grave.

Yea, in my lonely silent tomb, I hope to find sweet rest.

Speak now the word with comfort sought, and calm my troubled breast.

Wait not till death has born me hence, Alas! Will be too late.

For I'll not need your songs of praise, when I pass beyond the gate.

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