by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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.
Source:Longfellow's Poetical Works
Henry Frowde, London