When Death's pale angel stands before my face,
With smile unfathomable, stern and chill,
And when my sorrows with my soul exhale,
Know yet, my friends, that I am living still.
When at my head a waxen taper slim
With its cold rays the silent room shall fill,
A taper with a face that speaks of death,
Yet know, my friends, that I am living still.
When, with my forehead glittering with tears,
They in a shroud enfold me, cold and chill
As any stone, and lay me on a bier,
Yet know, my friends, that I am living still.
When the sad bells shall toll - that bell, the laugh
Of cruel Death, which wakes an icy thrill -
And when my bier is slowly borne along,
Yet know, my friends, that I am living still.
When the death-chanting priests, dark browed, austere,
With incense and with prayers the air shall fill,
Rising together as they pass along,
Yet know, my friends, that I am living still.
When they have set my tomb in order fair,
And when, with bitter sobs and wailing shrill,
My dear ones from the grave at length depart,
Yet know, my friends, that I shall be living still.
But when my grave forgotten shall remain
In some dim nook, neglected and passed by, -
When from the world my memory fades away,
That is the time when I indeed shall die!
