R. W. Emerson (The Daemonic and the Celestial Love).
... As I lie here, hours of the dead night,
Dying in state and by such slow degrees,
I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook,
And stretch my feet forth, straight as stone can point,
And let the bed-clothes, for a mortcloth, drop
Into great laps and folds of sculptor’s work.
R. Browning (The Bishop orders his Tomb).