DEATH’S JEST.
N. A. DOBROLIUBOV
What if I die? ’Twere little grief!
But one fear wrings my breast—
Perhaps Death, too, may play on me
A grim, insulting jest.
I fear that over my cold corpse
Hot tears may fall in showers;
That someone, with a foolish zeal,
May heap my bier with flowers;
That friends may crowd behind my hearse
With thoughts of grief sincere,
And when I lie beneath the mould,
Men’s hearts may hold me dear;
That all which I so eagerly
And vainly used to crave
In life, may brightly smile on me
When I am in my grave!
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