His last July

Make raiments of linen: drape me in
A summer’s suit, lower me
On a canvas of shade and air.
Make garlands, weaved from sleep.
Prepare a shawl of leaves
Dappled in wind. I will wear
A wide-brimmed hat, keep a length
Of white, a glimpse of blue,
Seen from below: and I will
Take a cool long glass of water,
Make it mine, and feel grass
Dreaming beneath me, still.

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