The river of time is fathomless long,
In funereal shades of violet and grey,
Lie faces once handsome and bodies once strong,
Now six feet under our own they will stay.

This flaxen lock or this downy hand,
All beauty shall wilt when his Stygian touch
Caresses you slow; after years in the sand
You'll find only winter within his bleak clutch.

Cheeks that once warmed and delighted in mirth,
Now are bloodless and pallid décor for his crypt,
Dreams that were dreamed, for all they were worth
Now float in his deluge, their passion all stripped.

Thus we whisper sweet prayers for God's saving grace,
That our acts prove eonian and true,
For our works, once born in the light of His face
Will ne'er grow dark with Death's hue.