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!


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