Take them o'death

And bear away

Whatever thou canst

Call thine own

Thine imagine stamped

Upon this clay

Doth give thee that

But that alone

Take tem o'great eternity

Our little life is but a gust

That bends the brenches of thy tree

And trails it's blossoms in the dust

Take them o'grave and let them lie

Folden upon thy narrow shelves

As garments by the soul laid by

And precious only to ourselves