“Look for me under your boot-soles” – Whitman, “Song of Myself”
I don't have to rage;
I don't have to cry;
but I'm at that age
I'll be passing by.
I'll wave as I go;
I'll smile if I can.
Don't let your tears flow–
I'll give you a hand–
I just won't have speech,
except in your head.
Which will be a reach,
considering I'm dead.