Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — 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!