The Last Will and Testament of a Poet

My England.

May I ask?

That when death calls,

You'll caress

this poet.

Where his shadow falls,

On his grave,

Lay a rose

of deepest red,

Shed, just one

single tear,

For your loyal dead,

Pauper's grave

without cross

or marker stone.

Silent rest,

rest in peace

In your arms alone,

Entombed in

Blake's rhythmic

Green and pleasant land.

Steady him

securely,

Within your mighty hands