When all is done, and my last word is said,
And ye who loved me murmur, "He is dead,"
[Let no one weep, for fear that I should know,]1
And sorrow too that ye should sorrow so.

When all is done and in the oozing clay,
Ye lay this cast-off hull of mine away,
Pray not for me, for, after long despair,
The quiet of the grave will be a prayer.

For I have suffered loss and grievous pain,
The hurts of hatred and the world's disdain,
And wounds so deep that love, well-tried and pure,
Had not the pow'r to ease them or to cure.

When all is done, say not my day is o'er,
[And that thro' night I seek a dimmer shore:]2
[Say rather]3 that my morn has just begun, -- 
I greet the dawn and not [a]4 setting sun,
        When all is done.