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!