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.