WHERE MY TREASURE IS

Eternal Mother, when my race is run, Will that I pass beneath the risen sun, Suffer my sight to dim upon some spot That changes not. Let my last pillow be the land I love With fair infinity of blue above; The roaming shadow of a silver cloud, My only shroud. A little lark above the morning star, Shall shrill the tidings of my end afar; The muffled music of a lone sheep-bell Shall be my knell. And where stone heroes trod the Moor of old; Where ancient wolf howled round a granite fold; Hide thou, beneath the heather’s new-born light, My endless night.