When I am dead let not your murderous tears
Deface with their slow dropping my sad tomb
Lest your grey head grow greyer for my doom
And fill its echoing corridors with fears:
Your heart that my stone monument appears
While yet I live—O give it not to gloom
When I am dead, but let some joy illume
The ultimate Victory that stings and sears.
Already I can hear the stealthy tread
Of sorrow breaking through the hush of day;
I have no hope you will avert my dread,
Too well I know, that soon am mixed with clay,
They mourn the body who the spirit slay
And those that stab the living weep the dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Profound spiritual piece