Death

Death is here, death is there,

Death is one, busy everywhere,

All around, within, beneath,

Above is death and we are death.

Death has its mark and seal,

On all we are and all we feel,

All we know,

Still have the fear.

First our pleasures die- and then,

Our hopes, then our fears- and when,

These are dead, the debt’s still due,

Dust claims dust- and we are dead too. . . .

All things that we love and cherish,

Like ourselves must fade and perish,

Such is our rude mortal lot-

Love itself would, they did not. . . .

Dead

There’s something quietier than sleep

Within this inner room!

It wears a twig over its breast,

And will not tell its name.

Some touch it and some kiss it,

Some chafe its idle hand;

It has simple gravity

Although I don’t understand!

While simple hearted neighbours

Chat of the early dead

But we, prone to death and rhymes

remark that birds have fled!