Fifteen Epitaphs I

I laid the strewings, darling, on thine urn;

I lowered the torch, I poured the cup to Dis.

Now hushaby, my little child, and learn

Long sleep how good it is.

In vain thy mother prays, wayfaring hence,

Peace to her heart, where only heartaches dwell;

But thou more blest, O mild intelligence!

Forget her, and Farewell.