In Llangowen Churchyard, Wales:
Our life is but a summer's day:
Some only breakfast, and away;
Others to dinner stay, and are full fed;
The oldest man but sups, and goes to bed.
Large his account who lingers out the day;
Who goes the soonest, has the least to pay.
✠
Middletown, Connecticut, 1741:
Under this stone
Lies my dear son
Which was an infant flower;
Whose dust God keeps
Ev'n while he sleeps,
Until the rising hour.
✠
Many a cold wind o'er my body shall roll
While in Abraham's bosom I'm a feasting my soul.
✠
The rising morn can't assume
That we shall end the day,
Death stands waiting at the door
To bear our souls away