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. And let the hand of her, whom I love best, 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 Martin Anster (1789-1867) - lawyer, writer, convert from Catholicism to Church of Ireland.