Death but anoints your eyes with clay. O, glad surprize!
Why should you be forlorn? Death only husks the corn.
Why should you fear to meet the Thresher of the wheat?
Is sleep a thing to dread? Yet sleeping you are dead
Till you awake and rise, here, or beyond the skies.
Why should it be a wrench to leave your wooden bench?
Why not with happy shout run home when school is out?
The dear ones left behind—O foolish one and blind.
A day, and you will meet—a night, and you will greet.
This is the death of death, to breathe away a breath