Bury Me Under The Greenwood Tree

by Achsa White Sprague

Bury me, friends, where the flowers shall wave,
In the early spring, above my grave!
Where the earliest birds their songs shall sing,
And the lark toward heaven its flight shall wing.
Bury me under the greenwood tree!
'Tis the only place of rest for me.
I could not sleep in the dark, cold tomb, --
I should pine in its mould, its damp and gloom!
Bury me, friends, where the violets grow,
Where close at my feet the brook shall flow,
Where the soft winds whisper among the bowers,
And the mosses sleep with the brightest flowers.
Bury me under the greenwood tree!
'Tis the only place of rest for me.

Come, when the flowers are in earliest bloom,
Come with the earliest spring-birds, come!
Come when the leaves are fresh on the trees,
And they softly sigh to the summer breeze.
Then every flower like my eye shall seem,
The song of the bird like my life's first dream,
While the whispers aloft in the leafy tree,
Shall all seem voices that come from me.

And do not weep for the dust that's laid
In the dim, cathedral, forest shade.
Think of me only as truly blest --
That I've found at last my promised rest!
Bury me deep in the forest lone,
Where only of Nature I'll hear the tone,
Where the foot of man has seldom trod, --
Bury me there, alone with God!