MY DEATHByBEDROS TOURIANWhen 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 ringTo 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!
MY DEATHByBEDROS TOURIANWhen 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 ringTo 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!
MY DEATH
ByBEDROS TOURIANWhen 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 ringTo 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!
ByBEDROS TOURIAN
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 ringTo 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!
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 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.
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 ringTo my black coffin’s muted tread—Death’s fiendish laughter, quivering,—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.
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.
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!
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!