Cover me quietly， stone.
I wrote verse. I meant little in life，
blamed few and injured none；
I tried to get along.
My writings kept me warm.
If I with my featherlight pen
confused prestige with worth，
praised evil， or ever wronged
the few who wanted a fight，
allow me， generous earth，
to do no further harm—
let me atone in my sleep；
I with my good will，
so lightly and often given，
who rest with nothing to keep，
and nothing to offer heaven.