Far from the churchyard dig his grave,
On some green mound beside the wave;
To westward, sea and sky alone,
Put a mossy stone,
With mortal name and date, a harp
And bunch of wild flowers, carven sharp;
Then leave it free to winds that blow,
And patient mosses creeping; slow,
And wandering wings, and footsteps rare
Of human creature pausing there.
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