Earth looks unto her treasure, there beholds
What remains of a life so cherished;
Cradled below, in soil’s warmth she enfolds
That temple which is newly perished.
But a grave unearthed there’s need of never
For the fair soul which in a body dwelt
Neither tomb nor eulogy endeavor;
The greatly loved spirit not seen is felt.
So rise, Beloved, ne’er to remember
Joy that’s now paled once counted as pleasure;
Time consumes all, leaving only embers
For the living to sift, sort and measure.
Friendship thus ended, dark not with death cloud:
Love never is subject to graven shroud.
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Polonius: What do you read, my lord? Hamlet: Words, words, words
