Beautiful poem I would like to have read when I take leave of the planet

I have this poem pasted behind a photo of my dear friend Paul Steinbeck who left the planet in 1982 -- I put it there years ago. The photo sits on a shelf above my computer. Today, the slip of paper with the poem on it slipped out from behind the photo and fluttered down onto my desk.  I am taking it as a Valentine from Paul (~.~).   I absolutely believe (actually, know) the truth of it and would like to have the poem given to friends and family when I pass from this plane of existence to the fine-matter realm. I can't think of a better gift to leave all my loved ones than the Truth. (~.~) 

(~.~) For clarification, I am not planning to leave any time soon -- just wanted to share this little Valentine that I believe Paul sent me today....(~.~)

Death Is Nothing At All

By Henry Scott-Holland

This poem is often read at funerals. The author, Henry Scott-Holland (1847 - 1918), a priest at St. Paul's Cathedral of London, did not intend it as a poem, it was actually delivered as part of a sermon in 1910. The sermon, titled, "Death the King of Terrors" was preached while the body of King Edward VII was lying in state at Westminster.Source: http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/death-is-nothing-at-all-by-henry-scott-holland#ixzz404U6yGGt

By Henry Scott-Holland more Henry Scott-Holland

Death Is Nothing At All

Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Nothing has happened.

Everything remains exactly as it was.
I am I, and you are you,
and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.

Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.

Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute and unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident?

Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval,
somewhere very near,
just round the corner.

All is well.
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!