When I'm dead don't mourn for me any longer than you can hear the surly sullen bell telling the world that I've fled this vile world to live with the even more vile worms. No, if you read this line, don't remember the hand that wrote it because I love you so much that I would like you to forget me rather than that, thinking about me, such thoughts would make you sad. Oh, I insist that if you read this poem when I'm, perhaps, mixed with clay, you must not even utter my poor name but let your love die with me in case the world, in its wisdom, should look closely at your mourning and mock you about me once I've gone.
