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