The Bishop Orders His Tomb at St. Praxed’s Church
…
Then the rich clay
Grows fruitful, breathes soft flowers,
And brings delight, though I must decay—
Ah, remember me with lilies;
Something to make that cold mold warm
And beacon me back to the charm…

A gathering of roots,
Roulades of summer;
Ah, beauty, let it blossom free
By heaven’s hand, its farmer dear!

• Robert Browning