The Joyous Dead

  Where snails abound—in a juicy soil,
  I will dig for myself a fathomless grave,
  Where at leisure mine ancient bones I can coil,
  And sleep—quite forgotten—like a shark 'neath the wave.

  I hate every tomb—I abominate wills,
  And rather than tears from the world to implore,
  I would ask of the crows with their vampire bills
  To devour every bit of my carcass impure.

  Oh worms, without eyes, without ears, black friends!
  To you a defunct-one, rejoicing, descends,
  Enlivened Philosophers—offspring of Dung!

  Without any qualms, o'er my wreckage spread,
  And tell if some torment there still can be wrung
  For this soul-less old frame that is dead 'midst the dead!