When My Time Is Come To Die, I Would Shun The Decent Gloom, Whispered Word And Weeping Eye, Fitful Hum Of Knowing Fly Questing Through The Darkened Room. I Would Lay My Skin And Bone Where No Busy Care Could Trace Failing Steps By Bush And Stone, With My Farewell Dream Alone In A Bird-Frequented Place. So The Sounds That Bless My Ear When My Weary Eyelids Close Will Be Songs Of Hope And Cheer; So Departing, I Shall Hear How The Tide Of Living Flows. So My Memories Shall Not Be Blurred By Griefs However True; So My Drowsy Sense May See Eyes That Light In Love On Me; So I'll Not Be Leaving You.