SLEEP, precious ashes, in thy sacred urn From Death and Grave till th' last trump sounds return; Meanwhile embalm'd in Virtues. Joseph's Tomb Were fitter for thee, than the Earth's dark womb. Cease, Friends, to weep; she's but asleep, not dead, -- Chang'd from her husband's, to her mother's, bed; Or from his bosom into Abram's rather, Where now she rests, Blest Soul, in such a Father. Thus Death hath done his best, and worst. His best, In sending Virtue to her place of rest; His worst, in leaving him, as dead, in life Whose chiefest Joys were in his dearest Wife. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CRANES OF IBYCUS by EMMA LAZARUS A LITTLE CHILD'S HYMN; FOR NIGHT AND MORNING by FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE JANUARY, 1795 by MARY DARBY ROBINSON SONNET: 116 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE JUNE BRACKEN AND HEATHER by ALFRED TENNYSON OCTOBER by PHILIP EDWARD THOMAS A FAERY SONG, SUNG BY THE PEOPLE OF FAERY OVER DIARMUID by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS |