Love the inmate, not the room—

The wearer, not the garb—the plume

Of the falcon, not the bars

Which kept him from the splendid stars;

Loving friends! Be wise, and dry

Straightway every weeping eye:

What ye lift upon the bier

Is not worth a wistful tear.

'Tis an empty sea-shell—one

Out of which the pearl has gone;