Mark how our shadow, Mark Movits, mon frere 
One small darkness encloses 
How gold and purple that shovel there 
To rags and rubbish disposes 

Charon beckons from tumultuous waves 
Then trice this ancient digger of graves 
For thee ne'er grapeskin shall glister 
Wherefore my Movits come help me to raise 
A gravestone over our sister 

Even desirous and modest abode 
Under the sighing branches 
Where time and death, a marriage forebode 
Twixt beauty and ugliness ashes 

To thee ne'er jealousy findeth her way 
Nor happiness footstep, swift to stray 
Flitteth amid these barrows 
E'en enmity armed, as thou seest this day 
Piously breaketh her arrow 

The little bell echoes the great bells groan 
Robed in the door the precentor 
Noisome with quirsters prayerful moan 
Blesses those who enter

The way to this templed city of tombs 
Climbs amid roses yellowing blooms 
Fragments of mouldering biers 
Till black-clad each mourner his station assumes 
Bows there deeply in tears