At My Death - A Welsh Poem on Death

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.