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.