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 bends its blossoms in the dust