"When I am dead, my dearest"

Poignant poem in The Sunday Times today: by Christina Rossetti, (1830 - 1894).

When I am dead, my dearest,

    Sing no sad songs for me;

Plant thou no roses at my head,

    Nor shady cypress tree:

Be the green grass above me

    With showers and dewdrops wet;

And if thou wilt, remember,

    And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,

   I shall not feel the rain;

I shall not hear the nightingale

   Sing on, as if in pain:

And dreaming through the twilight

    That doth not rise nor set,

Haply I may remember,

    And haply may forget.

---

I think that's a realistic view of death and its aftermath, beautifully stated.