Don't strew me with roses after I'm dead. When Death claims the light of my brow No flowers of life will cheer me: instead You may give me my roses now!

Don't strew me with roses after I'm dead.
When Death claims the light of my brow
No flowers of life will cheer me: instead
You may give me my roses now!

Dont strew me with roses after Im dead. When Death claims the light of my brow,No flowers of life will cheer me: insteadYou may give me my roses now!

Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes.

A man's dying is more the survivors' affair than his own.

One more Unfortunate, / Weary of breath, / Rashly importunate, / Gone to her death. Take her up tenderly, / Lift her with care; / Fashioned so slenderly, / Young, and so fair!