My life is full...

I All good things have not kept aloof Nor wandered into other ways: I have not lacked thy mild reproof, Nor golden largess of thy praise. But life is full of weary days. II Shake hands, my friend, across the brink Of that deep grave to which I go: Shake hands once more: I cannot sink So far—far down, but I shall know Thy voice, and answer from below. III When in the darkness over me The fourhanded mole shall scrape, Plant thou no dusky cypresstree, Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape, But pledge me in the flowing grape. IV And when the sappy field and wood Grow green beneath the showery gray, And rugged barks begin to bud, And through damp holts newflushed with May, Ring sudden laughters of the Jay, V Then let wise Nature work her will, And on my clay her darnels grow; Come only, when the days are still, And at my headstone whisper low, And tell me if the woodbines blow. VI If thou art blest, my mother’s smile Undimmed, if bees are on the wing: Then cease, my friend, a little while, That I may hear the throstle sing His bridal song, the boast of spring. VII Sweet as the noise in parchèd plains Of bubbling wells that fret the stones, (If any sense in me remains) Thy words will be: thy cheerful tones As welcome to my crumbling bones.