Suspiria

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