Cover me quietly， stone.

    I wrote verse. I meant little in life，

    blamed few and injured none；

    I tried to get along.

    My writings kept me warm.

    If I with my featherlight pen

    confused prestige with worth，

    praised evil， or ever wronged

    the few who wanted a fight，

    allow me， generous earth，

    to do no further harm—

    let me atone¹ in my sleep；

    I with my good will，

    so lightly and often given，

    who rest with nothing to keep，

    and nothing to offer heaven.