My blood is freezing, my senses reel,
So horror stricken at heart I feel;
Thinking how like a fast stream we range
Nearer and nearer to that dread change,
When the body becomes so stark and cold,
And man doth crumble away to mould.

Boast not, proud maid, for the grave doth gape,
And strangely altered reflects thy shape;
No dainty charms it doth disclose,
Death will ravish thy beauty’s rose;
And all the rest will leave to thee
When dug thy chilly grave shall be.

O, ye who are tripping the floor so light,
In delicate robes as the lily white,
Think of the fading funeral wreath,
The dying struggle, the sweat of death—
Think on the dismal death array,
When the pallid corse is consigned to clay!

O, ye who in quest of riches roam,
Reflect that ashes ye must become;
And the wealth ye win will brightly shine
When buried are ye and all your line;
For your many chests of much loved gold
You’ll nothing obtain but a little mould!