  The scarlet briars trailed across The grave I journeyed far to see; Upon the stone, half hid in moss, “Prepare for death, and follow me.” The birds flew southward down the sky; Upon a golden linden tree The leaves that fluttered seemed to sigh, “Prepare for death, and follow me.” My father’s father slept below So dreamless deep and silently, I spelled the message soft and slow, “Prepare for death, and follow me.” —Ah me! ’twas years ago the birds Fled swift o’er that far golden tree; And wherefore now come back these words, “Prepare for death, and follow me”?
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