Take them, O Death! and bear away
         Whatever thou canst call thine own!
Thine image, stamped upon this clay,
         Doth give thee that, but that alone!

Take them, O Grave! and let them lie
         Folded upon thy narrow shelves,
As garments by the soul laid by,
         And precious only to ourselves!

Take them, O great Eternity!
         Our little life is but a gust
That bends the branches of thy tree,
         And trails its blossoms in the dust!