When Death’s pale angel comes to me,

And smiling sweetly on my head,

Bids all my pains and sorrows flee,—

Believe not then that I am dead.

When my cold limbs they shroud with care,

And on my brow love’s tear-drops shed,

And lay me on my ebon bier,—

Believe not then that I am dead.

And when the tolling bell shall ring

To my black coffin’s muted tread

—Death’s fiendish laughter, quivering,—

Believe not then that I am dead.

And when the black-robed priests shall sing,

And prayers and incense round me spread,

With faces dark and sorrowing—

Believe not still that I am dead.

When on my tomb they heap the clay,

And leave me in my lonely bed,

And loved ones turn with sobs away—

Then never think that I am dead.

But if my grave neglected lie,

My memory too be gone and fled,

And dear ones pass unheeding by,

Ah, then believe that I am dead!