Bury this old Illinois farmer with respect.
He slept the Illinois nights of his life after days of work in Illinois          
       cornfields.
Now he goes on a long sleep.
The wind he listened to in the cornsilk and the tassels, the wind that
       combed his red beard zero mornings when the snow lay white on
       the yellow ears in the bushel basket at the corncrib,
The same wind will now blow over the place here where his hands
       must dream of Illinois corn.