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Poem	When I am dead I would that ye make my bed On that low-lying, windy waste by the sea, Where the silvery grasses rustle and lisp; There, where the crisp Foam-flakes shall fly over me, And murmurs creep From the ancient heart of the deep, Lulling me ever, I shall most sweetly sleep. While the eerie sea-folk croon On the long dim shore by the light of a waning moon. I shall not hear Clamor of young life anear, Voices of gladness to stir an unrest; Only the wandering mists of the sea Shall companion me; Only the wind in its quest Shall come where I lie, Or the rain from the brooding sky With furtive footstep shall pass me by, And never a dream of the earth Shall break on my slumber with lure of an out-lived mirth.
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