Móo grasped the torch that would, from body dead,
Release the soul yet linked to funeral bed.
Alone she set ablaze the corners four—
A sacred right none could dispute, nay more!—
Her duty ’twas as true and loving wife,
To light the wood, speeding the soul to life
Or dreamless sleep, the Will Supreme to bide.
The multitude, when Móo the torch applied,
Upon their knees, their brows to earth, were bowed
Until the priests, “Arise! All’s well!” cried loud.