When I die, O, bury me
Within the free young wild wood;
Little birches, o'er me bent,
Lamenting as my child would!
Let my surplice-shroud be spun
Of sparkling summer clover;
While the great and stately treen
Their rich rood-screen hang over!
For my bier-cloth blossomed may
Outlay on eight green willows!
Sea-gulls white to bear my pall
Take flight from all the billows.
Summer's cloister be my church
Of soft leaf-searching whispers,
From whose mossed bench the nightingale
To all the vale chants vespers!
Mellow-toned, the brake amid,
My organ hid be cuckoo!
Paters, seemly hours and psalm
Bird voices calm re-echo!
Mystic masses, sweet addresses,
Blackbird, be thou offering;
Till God His Bard to Paradise
Uplift from sighs and suffering.
Jun 18, 2008
At My Death - A Welsh Poem on Death
Blogger Cainnech at 10:38 AM