Along comes my hearse,    Marked with contempt,    Silently about    Its rotting descent.   Fickle the flame,    As chill it brings;   Tired and weary    As the raven sings.    My time has come    And bitter is the taste.    My time, it seems,    Is met with haste.    So carry me softly    With your gentle sway,   Back to the womb,    In the earth I lay.    Grieve me not,    I have no remorse for I have arrived.