IF I MIGHT CHOOSE If I might choose where my tired limbs shall lie When my task here is done, the oak's green crest Shall rise above my grave -- a little mound, Raised in some cheerful village cemetery. And I could wish, that, with unceasing sound, A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by -- In music -- through the long soft twilight hours. Plant round the bright green grave those fragrant flowers In whose deep bells the wild-bee loves to rest; And should the robin from some neighboring tree Pour his enchanted song -- oh! softly tread, For sure, if aught of earth can soothe the dead, He still must love that pensive melody! -- John Anster (1789-1867)