Yet I smile and whisper this—
"I am not the thing you kiss:
Cease your tears and let it lie;
It was mine, it is not 'I.'"
Sweet friends! what the women lave,
For its last bed of the grave,
Is but a hut which I am quitting,
Is a garment no more fitting,
Is a cage, from which at last,
Like a hawk, my soul hath passed.