To meet it when it falls, its sting is gone!
Yet death itself is never terrible,
But 'tis the thought of what comes after death
That wakes the coward in the soul of man—
Of man carnal and unregenerate.
In the lone grave the body soon is clothed
In vileness, and this most delicate frame
Becomes the food of worms, the gorging feast
Of those vile particles of putresence
We loathe in life to look at—which we spurn