Oh, lay my ashes on the wind
That blows across the sea.
And I shall meet a fisherman
Out of Capri,
And he will say, seeing me,
“What a strange thing!
Like a fish’s scale or a
Butterfly’s wing.”
Oh, lay my ashes on the wind
That blows away the fog.
And I shall meet a farmer boy
Leaping through the bog,
And he will say, seeing me,
“What a strange thing!
Like a peat-ash or a
Butterfly’s wing.”
And I shall blow to your house
And, sucked against the pane,
See you take your sewing up
And lay it down again.
And you will say, seeing me,
“What a strange thing!
Like a plum petal or a
Butterfly’s wing.”
And none at all will know me
That knew me well before.
But I will settle at the root
That climbs about your door,
And fishermen and farmers
May see me and forget,
But I’ll be a bitter berry
In your brewing yet.