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A Year of Poetry – Day 148

Let me die on the prairie! and o’er my rude grave,
In the soft breeze of summer the tall grass shall wave;
I would breathe my last sigh as the bright hues of even
Are melting away in the blue arch of Heaven.
Let me die on the prairie! unwept and unknown,
I would pass from this fair Earth forgotten, alone;—
Yet no! – there are hearts I have learned to revere,
And methinks there is bliss in affection’s warm tear.
Oh, speak not to me of the green cypress shade;
I would sleep where the bones of the Indian are laid,
And the deer will bound o’er me with step light and free,
And the carol of birds will my requiem be.
Let me die on the prairie! I have wished for it long;
There floats in wild numbers the bold hunter’s song;
’Tis the spot of all others the dearest to me,
And how sweet in its bosom my slumber will be!
— Frances Jane Crosby van Alstyne, Let Me Die On The Prairie
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