Suspira

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 bends its blossoms in the dust.