When Death's pale angel stands before my face, <br />With smile unfathomable, stern and chill, <br />And when my sorrows with my soul exhale, <br />Know yet, my friends, that I am living still. <br /> <br />When at my head a waxen taper slim <br />With its cold rays the silent room shall fill, <br />A taper with a face that speaks of death, <br />Yet know, my friends, that I am living still. <br /> <br />When, with my forehead glittering with tears, <br />They in a shroud enfold me, cold and chill <br />As any stone, and lay me on a bier, <br />Yet know, my friends, that I am living still. <br /> <br />When the sad bells shall toll - that bell, the laugh <br />Of cruel Death, which wakes an icy thrill - <br />And when my bier is slowly borne along, <br />Yet know, my friends, that I am living still. <br /> <br />When the death-chanting priests, dark browed, austere, <br />With incense and with prayers the air shall fill, <br />Rising together as they pass along, <br />Yet know, my friends, that I am living still. <br /> <br />When they have set my tomb in order fair, <br />And when, with bitter sobs and wailing shrill, <br />My dear ones from the grave at length depart, <br />Yet know, my friends, that I shall be living still. <br /> <br />But when my grave forgotten shall remain <br />In some dim nook, neglected and passed by, - <br />When from the world my memory fades away, <br />That is the time when I indeed shall die!<br /><br />Bedros Tourian<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-death-26/
