Let the children play And sit like flowers upon thy grave And crown with flowers,—that hardly have A briefer blooming-tide than they.

I network like a salmon in a bear costume. Why swim upstream when the honeybee has all the flowers? Is anything more romantic than roses on a grave?

When you're dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.

I once saw many flowers blooming
Upon my way, in indolence
I scorned to pick them in my going
And passed in proud indifference.

Now, when my grave is dug, they taunt me;
Now, when I'm sick to death in pain,
In mocking torment still they haunt me,
Those fragrant blooms of my disdain.

Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes
That on the green turf suck the honied showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears.

i paint flowers so they will not die

PAINTING FOR THE BURIAL

On the night of the full moon, place a canvas in the garden from 1 a.m. till dawn.
When the canvas is dyed thoroughly in rose with the morning light, dismember or fold it and bury.

The ways of burial:

1) Bury it in the garden and place a marker with a number on it.
2) Sell it to the rag man.
3) )Throw it in the garbage.

1961 summer

Some people do not even want to look at a person when the person is alive, but when the person dies they write eloquent obituaries and make offerings of flowers. At that point the person has died and cannot really enjoy the fragrance of the flowers anymore. If we really understood and remembered that life was impermanent, we would do everything we could to make the other person happy right here and right now.

Mine was a love so exquisite that I </br> Rather than watch it wither chose to die: </br> So dress my grave, O friend, with no poor flower </br> Which in your quiet garden blooms an hour!

Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.

My tomb shall be in a spot where the north wind may scatter roses over it.

Graveyards and Gardens There are graveyards inside you made of people that made you ache, made of memories that you barely survived made of trauma and heartbreak. These graveyards need to become gardens where you plant flowers that blossom, for you to let go.

I paint flowers so they will not die.

Pretty girls make graves