Suspiria

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!